5-cr.ofc;    for  l!;t  IBtbliap'Ijtlc 


,.-'■ 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

University  of  California. 


Class 


4* 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

Microsoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/balladsofbooksOOmattrich 


BALLADS  OF  BOOKS 


CHOSEN  BY 

BRANDER  MATTHEWS 


Q 

TUB 

S 

£ 

■1       bb 

a 

0 

||  s1§[k>5^-^ 

DJ 

L 

r 

tnl£7  itf^THBP11"1 

o 

*PW1  bv^H 

II 

ORW^H 

3 

oHSwH 

r 

[D                  ^        • 

P 

®lf^DCCCJLKXXYl  K 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  J.  COOMBES 

275  £ift6  3Ctomue 
1887 


LIBRARIAN'S  I 


Copyright,  1886, 
By  GEORGE  J.  COOMBES. 


CamfcritJ0e :  Printed  at  tfce  fttoetffoe  ®xt&. 


To 
FREDERICK  LOCKER 

POET  AND  LOVER  OF  BOOKS 

Come  and  take  a  choice  of  all  my  library 
Titus  Andronicus,  iv.  i 


218982 


PREFATORY   NOTE. 


HE  poets  have  ever  been  lovers  of 
books ;  indeed,  one  might  ask  how 
should  a  man  be  a  poet  who  did 
not  admire  a  treasure  as  precious 
and  as  beautiful  as  a  book  may  be. 
With  evident  enjoyment,  Keats  de- 
scribes 

A  viol,  bowstrings  torn,  cross-wise  upon 
A  glorious  folio  of  Anacreon  ; 

and  it  was  a  glorious  folio  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
which  another  English  poet  (whose  most  poetic  work 
was  done  in  prose)  "  dragged  home  late  at  night  from 
Barker's  in  Covent  Garden,"  and  to  pacify  his  con- 
science for  the  purchase  of  which  he  kept  to  his  over- 
worn suit  of  clothes  for  four  or  five  weeks  longer 
than  he  ought.  Charles  Lamb  was  a  true  bibliophile, 
in  the  earlier  and  more  exact  sense  of  the  term ;  he 
loved  his  ragged  volumes  as  he  loved  his  fellow-men, 
and  he  was  as  intolerant  of  books  that  are  not  books 


VI  PREFATORY  NOTE. 

as  he  was  of  men  who  were  not  manly.  He  con- 
ferred the  dukedom  of  his  library  on  Coleridge,  who 
was  no  respecter  of  books,  though  he  could  not  but 
enrich  them  with  his  marginal  notes.  Southey  and 
Lord  Houghton  and  Mr.  Locker  are  English  poets 
with  libraries  of  their  own,  more  orderly  and  far 
richer  than  the  fortuitous  congregation  of  printed 
atoms,  a  mere  medley  of  unrelated  tomes,  which  often 
masquerades  as  The  Library  in  the  mansions  of  the 
noble  and  the  wealthy.  Shelley  said  that  he  thought 
Southey  had  a  secret  in  every  one  of  his  books  which 
he  was  afraid  the  stranger  might  discover  :  but  this 
was  probably  no  more,  and  no  other,  than  the  se- 
cret of  comfort,  consolation,  refreshment,  and  happi- 
ness to  be  found  in  any  library  by  him  who  shall 
bring  with  him  the  golden  key  that  unlocks  its  silent 
door. 

Mr.  Lowell  has  recently  dwelt  on  the  difference 
between  literature  and  books  :  and,  accepting  this 
distinction,  the  editor  desires  to  declare  at  once  that 
as  a  whole  this  collection  is  devoted  rather  to  books 
than  to  literature.  The  poems  in  the  following  pages 
celebrate  the  bric-a-brac  of  the  one  rather  than  the 
masterpieces  of  the  other.  The  stanzas  here  gar- 
nered into  one  sheaf  sing  of  books  as  books,  of 
books  valuable  and  valued  for  their  perfection  of 
type  and  page  and  printing,  — for  their  beauty  and 
for  their  rarity,  —  or  for  their  association  with  some 
famous  man  or  woman  of  the  storied  past. 

Two  centuries  and  a  half  ago  Drummond  of  Haw- 


PRE  FA  TOR  Y  NO  TE.  vii 

thornden  prefixed  to  the  'Varieties'  of  his  friend 
Persons  a  braggart  distich  :  — 

This  book  a  world  is  ;  here,  if  errors  be, 

The  like,  nay  worse,  in  the  great  world  we  see. 

The  present  collection  of  varieties  in  verse  has  little 
or  naught  to  do  with  the  great  world  and  its  errors  : 
it  has  to  do  chiefly,  not  to  say  wholly,  with  the  world 
of  the  Bookmen — the  little  world  of  the  Book-lover, 
the  Bibliophile,  the  Bibliomaniac  —  a  mad  world,  my 
masters,  in  which  there  are  to  be  found  not  a  few 
poets  who  cherish  old  wine  and  old  wood,  old 
friends  and  old  books,  and  who  believe  that  old 
books  are  the  best  of  old  friends. 

Books,  books  again,  and  books  once  more  ! 
These  are  our  theme,  which  some  miscall 
Mere  madness,  setting  little  store 
By  copies  either  short  or  tall, 
But  you,  O  slaves  of  shelf  and  stall ! 
We  rather  write  for  you  that  hold 
Patched  folios  dear,  and  prize  "  the  small 
Rare  volume,  black  with  burnished  gold." 

as  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  sang  on  the  threshold  of  Mr. 
Lang's  delightfully  discursive  little  book  about  the 
1  Library.' 

The  editor  has  much  pleasure  in  thanking  the 
poets  who  have  allowed  him  to  reprint  their  poems 
in  these  pages ;  and  he  acknowledges  a  double  debt 
of  gratitude  to  the  friends  who  have  written  poems 
expressly  for  this  collection.  Encouraged  by  their 
support,  and  remembering  that  he  is  not  a  contribu- 
tor to  his  own  pages,  the  editor  ventures  to  conclude 


Vlll  PREFATORY  NOTE.     ' 

his  harmless  necessary  catalogue  of  the  things  con- 
tained and  not  contained  within  these  covers,  by 
quoting  Herrick's  address  to  his  Book :  — 

Be  bold,  my  Book,  nor  be  abash'd,  or  fear, 
The  cutting  thumb-nail,  or  the  brow  severe ; 
But  by  the  muses  swear,  all  here  is  good, 
If  but  well  read,  or  ill  read,  understood. 


BRANDER  MATTHEWS. 


New  York,  November,  1886. 


BALLADE  OF  THE  BOOKWORM. 

Deep  in  the  Past  I  peer,  and  see 
A  Child  upon  the  Nursery  floor , 
A  Child  with  book,  upon  his  knee, 
Who  asks,  like  Oliver,  for  more  ! 
The  number  of  his  years  is  IV, 
And  yet  in  Letters  hath  he  skill, 
How  deep  he  dives  in  Fairy-lore  ! 
The  Books  I  loved,  I  love  them  still ! 

One  gift  the  Fairies  gave  me  :  (Three 
They  commonly  bestowed  of  yore) 
The  Love  of  Books,  the  Golden  Key 
That  opens  the  Enchanted  Door  ; 
Behind  it  BLUEBEARD  lurks  and  o'er 
And  o'er  doth  JACK  his  Giants  kill, 
And  there  is  all  ALADDIN'S  store,  — 
The  Books  I  loved,  I  love  them  still ! 

Take  all,  but  leave  my  Books  to  me  ! 
These  heavy  creels  of  old  we  love 
We  fill  not  now,  nor  wander  free, 


PROEM. 

Nor  wear  the  heart  that  once  we  wore  ; 

Not  now  each  River  seems  to  pour 

His  waters  from  the  Muse's  hill; 

Though  something's  gone  from  stream  and  shore, 

The  Books  I  love,  I  love  them  still! 

ENVOY  \ 
Fate,  that  art  Queen  by  shore  and  sea, 
We  how  submissive  to  thy  will, 
Ah  grant,  by  some  benign  decree, 
The  Books  I  loved — to  love  them  still. 

A.  Lang. 


Contents 

PAGE 

Prefatory  Note v 

Proem.     *  Ballade  of  the  Bookworm  (A.  Lang)  .     .  ix 
Edward    D.  Anderson.     The  Baby  in    the  Li- 
brary        17 

Francis  Bennoch.     My  Books 19 

Laman  Blanchard.     The  Art  of  Book- Keeping    .  20 

Anne  C.  L.  Botta.    hi  the  Library 26 

H.  C.  Bunner.     *  My  Shakspere 28 

Robert  Burns.     The  Bookworms 31 

Catullus.    *  To  his  Book  (Translated  by  A.  Lang)  32 

Beverly  Chew.     Old  Books  are  best 33 

Thomas  S.  Collier.     *  The  Forgotten  Books     .    .  34 

Helen  Gray  Cone.    An  Invocation  in  a  Library  .  36 

Samuel  Daniel.     Concerning  the  Honor  of  Books  .  38 

Isaac  D'Israeli.    Lines 39 

*  The  poems  thus  marked  were  written  or  translated  for  the  present  col- 
lection. 


Xil  CONTENTS. 

Austin  Dobson.     My  Books 40 

To  a  Missal  of  the  Thirteenth  Century  ...  42 

The  Book-plate's  Petition 44 

Henry   Drury.     Over  the   Threshold  of  my  Li- 
brary    46 

Maurice  F.  Egan.     The  Chrysalis  of  a  Bookworm  47 

Evenus.     Epigram  (Translated  by  A.  Lang)  ...  48 

John  Ferriar.     The  Bibliomania 49 

F.  Fertiault.     Triolet  to  her  Husband  (Translated 

by  A.  Lang) 57 

William  Freeland.    A  Nook  and  a  Book     ...  58 

Edmund  Gosse.    *  The  Sultan  of  my  Books  ...  60 

Thomas  Gordon  Hake.     Our  Book-Shelves      .    .  64 

Robert  Herrick.     To  his  Book 66 

To  his  Book 67 

Horace.    *  To  his  Books  (Translated  by  Austin 

Dobson) 68 

Leigh  Hunt.    Sonnet 70 

Willis  Fletcher  Johnson.    My  Books   ....  71 

Ben  Jonson.     To  my  Bookseller 73 

To  Sir  Henry  Goody  ere 74 

Charles  Lamb.    In  the  Album  of  Lucy  Barton  .     .  75 

A.Lang.     Ballade  of  the  Bo  ok- Hunter 77 

Ballade  of  True  Wisdom 79 

Ballade  of  the  Bookman's  Paradise   ....  81 

The  Rowfant  Books 83 

The  Rowfant  Library 85 

Ghosts  in  the  Library 87 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

George  Parsons  Lathrop.  *  The  Book  Battalion  91 
Walter  Learned.    *  On  the  Fly-Leaf  of  a  Book  of 

OldPlays 93 

Robert  Leighton.     Too  Many  Books 95 

Frederick  Locker.     *  From  the  Fly-Leaf  of  the 

Rowfant  Montaigne 97 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.     My  Books     .    98 

Lord  Lytton.     The  Souls  of  Books 99 

Cosmo  Monkhouse.    *  De  Libris 105 

Arthur  J.  Munby.     *  Ex  Libris 107 

*  On  an  Inscription 108 

Caroline  Norton.     To  my  Books no 

F.  M.  P.     l  Desultory  Reading' in 

Thomas  Parnell.     The  Bookworm 112 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck.  Among  my  Books  .  .116 
Walter  Herries  Pollock.  *  A  Ruined  Library  .117 
Bryan  Waller  Procter  (Barry  Cornwall).    My 

Books 119 

William  Roscoe.     To  my  Books  on  Parting  with 

Them 120 

Lord  Rosslyn.    Among  my  Books 121 

John  Godfrey  Saxe.     The  Library 123 

Clinton  Scollard.     Ln  the  Library 124 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman.     The  Book-Hunter   .  126 

Robert  Southey.     The  Library 128 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson.    Picture-Books  in  Win- 
ter      130 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard.     Companions    .    .    .131 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

Richard  Thomson.     The  Book  of  Life 133 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner.     On  Certain  Books  .  135 

Henry  Vaughan.     To  his  Books 136 

Samuel  Waddington.     *  Literature  and  Nature  .  138 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier.     The  Library   .    .    .139 

Tom  as  Yriarte.     The  Country  Squire 141 

Anonymous.     Old  Books 144 

APPENDIX. 

George  Crabbe.     The  Library 149 

A  Final  Word.     *  The   Collector  to  his  Library 

(Austin  Dobson) 173 


-Ballad  of  'Boofts 


BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


THE    BABY   IN   THE    LIBRARY. 

Edward  D.  Anderson.  From   '  Wideawake  '  for    May, 

fS8j. 

WITHIN  these  solemn,  book-lined  walls, 
Did  mortal  ever  see 
A  critic  so  unprejudiced, 
So  full  of  mirthful  glee  ? 

Just  watch  her  at  that  lower  shelf : 
See,  there  she  's  thumped  her  nose 

Against  the  place  where  Webster  stands 
In  dignified  repose. 

Such  heavy  books  she  scorns  ;  and  she 

Considers  Vapereau, 
And  Beeton,  too,  though  full  of  life, 

Quite  stupid,  dull,  and  slow. 

She  wants  to  take  a  higher  flight, 

Aspiring  little  elf ! 
And  on  her  mother's  arm  at  length 

She  gains  a  higher  shelf. 


1 8  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

But,  oh  !  what  liberties  she  takes 
With  those  grave,  learned  men ; 

Historians,  and  scientists, 
And  even  "  Rare  old  Ben  ! " 

At  times  she  takes  a  spiteful  turn, 
And  pommels,  with  her  fists, 

De  Quincey,  Jeffrey,  and  Carlyle, 
And  other  essayists. 

And,  when  her  wrath  is  fully  roused, 
And  she  's  disposed  for  strife, 

It  almost  looks  as  if  she  'd  like 
To  take  Macaulay's  '  Life/ 

Again,  in  sympathetic  mood, 

She  gayly  smiles  at  Gay, 
And  punches  Punch,  and  frowns  at  Sterne 

In  quite  a  dreadful  way. 

In  vain  the  Sermons  shake  their  heads  : 
She  does  not  care  for  these ; 

But  catches,  with  intense  delight, 
At  all  the  Tales  she  sees. 

Where  authors  chance  to  meet  her  views, 

Just  praise  they  never  lack  j 
To  comfort  and  encourage  them, 

She  pats  them  on  the  back. 


MY  BOOKS.  19 


MY  BOOKS. 

_  _  From  the  *  Storm  and  Other  Poems? 

Francis  Bennoch. 

I  LOVE  my  books  as  drinkers  love  their  wine  ; 
The  more  I  drink,  the  more  they  seem  divine  ; 
With  joy  elate  my  soul  in  love  runs  o'er, 
And  each  fresh  draught  is  sweeter  than  before. 
Books  bring  me  friends  where'er  on  earth  I  be, — 
Solace  of  solitude,  —  bonds  of  society ! 

I  love  my  books  !  they  are  companions  dear, 
Sterling  in  worth,  in  friendship  most  sincere ; 
Here  talk  I  with  the  wise  in  ages  gone, 
And  with  the  nobly  gifted  of  our  own. 
If  love,  joy,  laughter,  sorrow  please  my  mind, 
Love,  joy,  grief,  laughter  in  my  books  I  find. 


BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


THE   ART   OF   BOOK-KEEPING. 

Lam  an  Blanchard.  From  his  *  Poetical  Works.'    187b. 

HOW  hard,  when  those  who  do  not  wish 
To  lend,  that 's  lose,  their  books, 
Are  snared  by  anglers  —  folks  that  fish 
With  literary  hooks  j 

Who  call  and  take  some  favorite  tome, 

But  never  read  it  through,  — 
They  thus  complete  their  set  at  home, 

By  making  one  at  you. 

Behold  the  bookshelf  of  a  dunce 

Who  borrows  —  never  lends  : 
Yon  work,  in  twenty  volumes,  once 

Belonged  to  twenty  friends. 

New  tales  and  novels  you  may  shut 

From  view  —  't  is  all  in  vain  j 
They  're  gone  —  and  though  the  leaves  are  "  cut  " 

They  never  "  come  again." 

For  pamphlets  lent  I  look  around, 

For  tracts  my  tears  are  spilt ; 
But  when  they  take  a  book  that 's  bound, 

'T  is  surely  extra-gilt. 


THE   ART  OF  BOOK-KEEPING.  21 

A  circulating  library 

Is  mine  —  my  birds  are  flown  ; 
There  's  one  odd  volume  left  to  be 

Like  all  the  rest,  a-lone. 

I,  of  my  Spenser  quite  bereft, 

Last  winter  sore  was  shaken ; 
Of  Lamb  I  've  but  a  quarter  left, 

Nor  could  I  save  my  Bacon. 

My  Hall  and  Hill  were  levelled  flat, 

But  Moore  was  still  the  cry  \ 
And  then,  although  I  threw  them  Sprat, 

They  swallowed  up  my  Pye. 

O'er  everything,  however  slight, 

They  seized  some  airy  trammel ; 
They  snatched  my  Hogg  and  Fox  one  night, 

And  pocketed  my  Campbell. 

And  then  I  saw  my  Crabbe  at  last, 

Like  Hamlet's,  backward  go ; 
And,  as  my  tide  was  ebbing  fast, 

Of  course  I  lost  my  Rowe. 

I  wondered  into  what  balloon 

My  books  their  course  had  bent ; 
And  yet,  with  all  my  marvelling,  soon 

I  found  my  Marvell  went. 


BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

My  Mallet  served  to  knock  me  down, 
Which  makes  me  thus  a  talker ; 

And  once,  while  I  was  out  of  town, 
My  Johnson  proved  a  Walker. 

While  studying  o'er  the  fire  one  day 
My  Hobbes  amidst  the  smoke, 

They  bore  my  Colman  clean  away, 
And  carried  off  my  Coke. 

They  picked  my  Locke,  to  me  far  more 
Than  Bramah's  patent 's  worth ; 

And  now  my  losses  I  deplore 
Without  a  Home  on  earth. 

If  once  a  book  you  let  them  lift, 

Another  they  conceal ; 
For  though  I  caught  them  stealing  Swift, 

As  swiftly  went  my  Steele. 

Hope  is  not  now  upon  my  shelf, 

Where  late  he  stood  elated ; 
But,  what  is  strange,  my  Pope  himself 

Is  excommunicated. 

My  little  Suckling  in  the  grave 

Is  sunk  to  swell  the  ravage  j 
And  what 't  was  Crusoe's  fate  to  save 

'T  was  mine  to  lose  —  a  Savage. 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-KEEPING.  23 

Even  Glover's  works  I  cannot  put 

My  frozen  hands  upon  ; 
Though  ever  since  I  lost  my  Foote 

My  Bunyan  has  been  gone. 

My  Hoyle  with  Cotton  went ;  oppressed, 

My  Taylor  too  must  sail  \ 
To  save  my  Goldsmith  from  arrest, 

In  vain  I  offered  Bayle. 

I  Prior  sought,  but  could  not  see 

The  Hood  so  late  in  front  \ 
And  when  I  turned  to  hunt  for  Lee, 

Oh !  where  was  my  Leigh  Hunt. 

I  tried  to  laugh,  old  Care  to  tickle, 

Yet  could  not  Tickell  touch  ; 
And  then,  alas  !  I  missed  my  Mickle, 

And  surely  mickle  's  much. 

'T  is  quite  enough  my  griefs  to  feed, 

My  sorrows  to  excuse, 
To  think  I  cannot  read  my  Reid, 

Nor  even  use  my  Hughes. 

To  West,  to  South,  I  turn  my  head, 

Exposed  alike  to  odd  jeers ; 
For  since  my  Roger  Ascham's  fled, 

I  ask  'em  for  my  Rogers. 


24  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

They  took  my  Home  —  and  Home  Tooke,  too, 

And  thus  my  treasures  flit ; 
I  feel,  when  I  would  Hazlitt  view, 

The  flames  that  it  has  lit. 

My  word's  worth  little,  Wordsworth  gone, 

If  I  survive  its  doom  ; 
How  many  a  bard  I  doated  on 

Was  swept  off  —  with  my  Broome. 

My  classics  would  not  quiet  lie, 

A  thing  so  fondly  hoped  ; 
Like  Dr.  Primrose,  I  may  cry, 

"  My  Livy  has  eloped  !  " 

My  life  is  wasting  fast  away  — 

I  suffer  from  these  shocks  ; 
And  though  I  've  fixed  a  lock  on  Gray, 

There  's  gray  upon  my  locks. 

I  'm  far  from  young  —  am  growing  pale  — 

I  see  my  Butter  fly  ; 
And  when  they  ask  about  my  ail, 

'T  is  Burton !  I  reply. 

They  still  have  made  me  slight  returns, 

And  thus  my  griefs  divide ; 
For  oh  !  they  Ve  cured  me  of  my  Burns, 

And  eased  my  Akenside. 


THE  ART  OF  BOOK-KEEPING.  25 

But  all  I  think  I  shall  not  say, 

Nor  let  my  anger  burn  ; 
For  as  they  never  found  me  Gay, 

They  have  not  left  me  Sterne. 


26  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


IN   THE    LIBRARY. 

Anne  C.  L.  Botta.  From  her  collected '*  Poems.''    1882. 

SPEAK  low  —  tread  softly  through  these  halls  ; 
Here  genius  lives  enshrined,  — 
Here  reign,  in  silent  majesty, 
The  monarchs  of  the  mind. 

A  mighty  spirit-host,  they  come 

From  every  age  and  clime  ; 
Above  the  buried  wrecks  of  years 

They  breast  the  tide  of  4;ime. 

And  in  their  presence-chamber  here 

They  hold  their  regal  state, 
And  round  them  throng  a  noble  train, 

The  gifted  and  the  great. 

O  child  of  earth,  when  round  thy  path 

The  storms  of  life  arise, 
And  when  thy  brothers  pass  thee  by 

With  stern,  unloving  eyes,  — 

Here  shall  the  Poets  chant  for  thee 
Their  sweetest,  loftiest  lays  5 


IN  THE  LIBRARY.  27 

And  Prophets  wait  to  guide  thy  steps 
In  wisdom's  pleasant  ways. 

Come,  with  these  God-anointed  kings 

Be  thou  companion  here, 
And  in  the  mighty  realm  of  mind 

Thou  shalt  go  forth  a  peer. 


28  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


MY  SHAKSPERE. 

H.  C.  Bunnkr.  Written  expressly  for  this  collection. 

WITH  bevelled  binding,  with  uncut  edge, 
With  broad  white  margin  and  gilded  top, 

Fit  for  my  library's  choicest  ledge, 

Fresh  from  the  bindery,  smelling  of  shop, 

In  tinted  cloth,  with  a  strange  design  — 

Buskin  and  scroll-work  and  mask  and  crown, 
And  an  arabesque  legend  tumbling  down  — 

"  The  Works  of  Shakspere  "  were  never  so  fine. 

Fresh  from  the  shop  !  I  turn  the  page  — 
Its  "  ample  margin  "  is  wide  and  fair  — 
Its  type  is  chosen  with  daintiest  care  ; 
There  's  a  "  New  French  Elzevir  "  strutting  there 

That  would  shame  its  prototypic  age. 

Fresh  from  the  shop  !     O  Shakspere  mine, 

I  Ve  half  a  notion  you  're  much  too  fine  ! 

There  's  an  ancient  volume  that  I  recall, 
In  foxy  leather  much  chafed  and  worn  ; 

Its  back  is  broken  by  many  a  fall, 
The  stitches  are  loose  and  the  leaves  are  torn  ; 

And  gone  is  the  bastard-title,  next 

To  the  title-page  scribbled  with  owners'  names, 
That  in  straggling  old-style  type  proclaims 


MY  SHAKSPERE.  29 

That  the  work  is  from  the  corrected  text 
Left  by  the  late  Geo.  Steevens,  Esquire. 

The  broad  sky  burns  like  a  great  blue  fire, 

And  the  Lake  shines  blue  as  shimmering  steel, 

And*  it  cuts  the  horizon  like  a  blade  — 

But  behind  the  poplar  's  a  strip  of  shade  — 

The  great  tall  Lombardy  on  the  lawn. 

And  lying  there  in  the  grass,  I  feel 

The  wind  that  blows  from  the  Canada  shore, 
And  in  cool,  sweet  puffs  comes  stealing  o'er, 
Fresh  as  any  October  dawn. 

I  lie  on  my  breast  in  the  grass,  my  feet 
Lifted  boy-fashion,  and  swinging  free, 
The  old  brown  Shakspere  in  front  of  me. 

And  big  are  my  eyes,  and  my  heart's  a-beat ; 

And  my  whole  soul 's  lost  —  in  what  ?  —  who  knows  ? 

Perdita's  charms  or  Perdita's  woes  — 

Perdita  fairy-like,  fair  and  sweet.    • 
Is  any  one  jealous,  I  wonder,  now, 
Of  my  love  for  Perdita  ?     For  I  vow 
I  loved  her  well.     And  who  can  say 
That  life  would  be  quite  the  same  life  to-day  — 
That  Love  would  mean  so  much,  if  she         * 
Had  not  taught  me  its  A  B  C  ? 

The  Grandmother,  thin  and  bent  and  old, 

But  her  hair  still  dark  and  her  eyes  still  bright, 

Totters  around  among  her  flowers  — 
Old-fashioned  flowers  of  pink  and  white  ; 


3°  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

And  turns  with  a  trowel  the  dark  rich  mould 
That  feeds  the  blooms  of  her  heart's  delight. 
Ah  me  !  for  her  and  for  me  the  hours 
Go  by,  and  for  her  the  smell  of  earth  — 
And  for  me  the  breeze  and  a  far  love's  birth, 
And  the  sun  and  the  sky  and  all  the  things 
That  a  boy's  heart  hopes  and  a  poet  sings. 

Fresh  from  the  shop  !     O  Shakspere  mine, 

It  was  n't  the  binding  made  you  divine  ! 
I  knew  you  first  in  a  foxy  brown, 
In  the  old,  old  home,  where  I  laid  me  down, 
In  the  idle  summer  afternoons, 

With  you  alone  in  the  odorous  grass, 

And  set  your  thoughts  to  the  wind's  low  tunes, 

And  saw  your  children  rise  up  and  pass  — 

And  dreamed  and  dreamed  of  the  things  to  be, 
Known  only,  I  think,  to  you  and  me. 

I  Ve  hardly  a  heart  for  you  dressed  so  fine  — 
Fresh  from  the  shop,  O  Shakspere  mine ! 


THE  BOOKWORMS.  31 


THE  BOOKWORMS. 

Burns  saw  a  splendidly  bound  but  sadly 

neglected  copy   of  Shakspere  in  the 

Robert  Burns.  libr?Zy  °S  *  noMenian  in  Edinburgh, 

and  he  wrote  these  lines  on  the  ample 
margin  of  one  of  its  pages,  where  they 
were  found  long  after  the  poet's  death. 

THROUGH  and  through  the  inspired  leaves, 
Ye  maggots,  make  your  windings  ; 
But  oh,  respect  his  lordship's  taste, 
And  spare  the  golden  bindings. 


32  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


CATULLUS   TO   HIS   BOOK. 

QVOI  DONO   LEPIDVM   NOVVM  LIBELLVM. 

„  ..  r.  Translated  by  A.  Lang  expressly 

Caius  Valerius  Catullus.  '  £  *     r 

for  this  collection. 

MY  little  book,  that's  neat  and  new, 
Fresh  polished  with  dry  pumice  stone, 
To  whom,  Cornelius,  but  to  you, 
Shall  this  be  sent,  for  you  alone  — 
(Who  used  to  praise  my  lines,  my  own)  — 
Have  dared,  in  weighty  volumes  three, 
(What  labors,  Jove,  what  learning  thine  !) 
To  tell  the  Tale  of  Italy, 
And  all  the  legend  of  our  line. 

So  take,  whate'er  its  worth  may  be, 
My  Book,  —  but  Lady  and  Queen  of  Song, 
This  one  kind  gift  I  crave  of  thee, 
That  it  may  live  for  ages  long  ! 


OLD  BOOKS  ARE  BEST.  33 


OLD   BOOKS   ARE   BEST. 

TO   J.    H.    P. 

Beverly  Chew.  From  the  '  Critic '  of  March  ij,  1886. 

OLD  Books  are  best !     With  what  delight 
Does  "  Faithorne  fecit "  greet  our  sight 
On  frontispiece  or  title-page 
Of  that  old  time,  when  on  the  stage 
"  Sweet  Nell  "  set  "  Rowley's  "  heart  alight ! 

And  you,  O  Friend,  to  whom  I  write, 
Must  not  deny,  e'en  though  you  might, 
Through  fear  of  modern  pirate's  rage, 
Old  Books  are  best. 

What  though  the  prints  be  not  so  bright, 
The  paper  dark,  the  binding  slight  ? 

Our  author,  be  he  dull  or  sage, 

Returning  from  that  distant  age 
So  lives  again,  we  say  of  right : 
Old  Books  are  best. 


34  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


THE  FORGOTTEN  BOOKS. 

Thomas  S.  Collier.  #  Written  expressly  for  this  collection. 

HID  by  the  garret's  dust,  and  lost 
Amid  the  cobwebs  wreathed  above, 
They  lie,  these  volumes  that  have  cost 
Such  weeks  of  hope  and  waste  of  love. 

The  Theologian's  garnered  lore 

Of  Scripture  text,  and  words  divine ; 

And  verse,  that  to  some  fair  one  bore 
Thoughts  that  like  fadeless  stars  would  shine ; 

The  grand  wrought  epics,  that  were  born 
From  mighty  throes  of  heart  and  brain,  — 

Here  rest,  their  covers  all  unworn, 
And  all  their  pages  free  from  stain. 

Here  lie  the  chronicles  that  told 

Of  man,  and  his  heroic  deeds  — 
Alas  !  the  words  once  "  writ  in  gold  " 

Are  tarnished  so  that  no  one  reads. 

And  tracts  that  smote  each  other  hard, 
While  loud  the  friendly  plaudits  rang, 


THE  FORGOTTEN  BOOKS.  35 

All  animosities  discard, 
Where  old,  moth-eaten  garments  hang. 

The  heroes  that  were  made  to  strut 

In  tinsel  on  "  life's  mimic  stage  " 
Found,  all  too  soon,  the  deepening  rut 

Which  kept  them  silent  in  the  page ; 

And  heroines,  whose  loveless  plight 

Should  wake  the  sympathetic  tear, 
In  volumes  sombre  as  the  night 

Sleep  on  through  each  succeeding  year. 

Here  Phyllis  languishes  forlorn, 

And  Strephon  waits  beside  his  flocks, 

And  early  huntsmen  wind  the  horn, 
Within  the  boundaries  of  a  box. 

Here,  by  the  irony  of  fate, 

Beside  the  "  peasant's  humble  board," 
The  monarch  "  flaunts  his  robes  of  state," 

And  spendthrifts  find  the  miser's  hoard. 

Days  come  and  go,  and  still  we  write, 

And  hope  for  some  far  happier  lot 
Than  that  our  work  should  meet  this  blight  — 

And  yet  —  some  books  must  be  forgot. 


36  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


AN    INVOCATION    IN   A   LIBRARY. 

Helen  Gray  Cone.  From  '  Oberon  and  Puck?    1885. 

O  BROTHERHOOD,  with  bay-crowned  brows 
undaunted, 
Who  passed  serene  along  our  crowded  ways, 
Speak  with  us  still !  For  we,  like  Saul,  are  haunted  : 
Harp  sullen  spirits  from  these  later  days  ! 

Whate'er  high  hope  ye  had  for  man  your  brother, 
Breathe  it,  nor  leave  him,  like  a  prisoned  slave, 

To  stare  through  bars  upon  a  sight  no  other 
Than  clouded  skies  that  lighten  on  a  grave. 

In  these  still  alcoves  give  us  gentle  meeting, 
From  dusky  shelves  kind  arms  about  us  fold, 

Till  the  New  Age  shall  feel  her  cold  heart  beating 
Restfully  on  the  warm  heart  of  the  Old  : 

Till  we  shall  hear  your  voices,  mild  and  winning 
Steal  through  our  doubt  and  discord,  as  outswells 

At  fiercest  noon,  above  a  city's  dinning, 
The  chiming  music  of  cathedral  bells  : 


AN  INVOCATION  IN  A    LIBRARY,  37 

Music  that  lifts  the  thought  from  trodden  places, 
And  coarse  confusions  that  around  us  lie, 

Up  to  the  calm  of  high,  cloud-silvered  spaces, 

Where  the  tall  spire  points  through  the  soundless 
sky. 


38  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


CONCERNING  THE   HONOR   OF  BOOKS. 

This  sonnet,  prefixed  to  the  second  edi- 
tion of  Florio's  Montaigne,  ibrj,  is 
Samuel  Daniel.  generally  attributed  to  the  transla- 

tor, but  the  best  critics  now  incline 
to  the  belief  that  it  is  by  his  friend, 
Daniel. 

SINCE  honor  from  the  honorer  proceeds, 
How  well  do  they  deserve,  that  memorize 
And  leave  in  books  for  all  posterity 
The  names  of  worthies  and  their  virtuous  deeds ; 
When  all  their  glory  else,  like  water-weeds 
Without  their  element,  presently  dies, 
And  all  their  greatness  quite  forgotten  lies, 
And  when  and  how  they  flourished  no  man  heeds  j 
How  poor  remembrances  are  statues,  tombs, 
And  other  monuments  that  men  erect 
To  princes,  which  remain  in  closed  rooms, 
Where  but  a  few  behold  them,  in  respect 
Of  books,  that  to  the  universal  eye 
Show  how  they  lived  ;  the  other  where  they  lie ! 


LINES,  39 


LINES. 

f„..,-  TvTr.T,»„,»  Imitated  from  Rantzau^  the  founder 

Isaac  D  Israeli.  ofthe  ^rary  at  Copenhagel 

GOLDEN  volumes  !  richest  treasures  ! 
Objects  of  delicious  pleasures ! 
You  my  eyes  rejoicing  please, 
You  my  hands  in  rapture  seize  ! 
Brilliant  wits,  and  musing  sages, 
Lights  who  beamed  through  many  ages, 
Left  to  your  conscious  leaves  their  story, 
And  dared  to  trust  you  with  their  glory ; 
And  now  their  hope  of  fame  achieved  ! 
Dear  volumes  1  you  have  not  deceived ! 


40  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


MY   BOOKS. 

Austin  Dobson.  From  '  At  the  Sign  of  the  Lyre?    1883. 

THEY  dwell  in  the  odor  of  camphor, 
They  stand  in  a  Sheraton  shrine, 
They  are  "  warranted  early  editions," 
These  worshipful  tomes  of  mine  ;  — 

In  their  creamy  "  Oxford  vellum," 
In  their  redolent  "  crushed  Levant," 

With  their  delicate  watered  linings, 
They  are  jewels  of  price,  I  grant ;  — 

Blind-tooled  and  morocco-jointed, 
They  have  Bedford's  daintiest  dress, 

They  are  graceful,  attenuate,  polished, 
But  they  gather  the  dust,  no  less ;  — 

For  the  row  that  I  prize  is  yonder, 
Away  on  the  unglazed  shelves, 

The  bulged  and  the  bruised  octavos, 
The  dear  and  the  dumpy  twelves,  — 

Montaigne  with  his  sheepskin  blistered, 
And  Howell  the  worse  for  wear, 

And  the  worm-drilled  Jesuits'  Horace, 
And  the  little  old  cropped  Moliere,  — 


MY  BOOKS.  41 

And  the  Burton  I  bought  for  a  florin, 
And  the  Rabelais  foxed  and  flea'd,  — 

For  the  others  I  never  have  opened, 
But  those  are  the  ones  I  read. 


42  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


TO   A   MISSAL  OF   THE   THIRTEENTH    CEN- 
TURY. 

Austin  Dobson.  From  ■  At  the  Sign  of  the  LyreS    1883. 

MISSAL  of  the  Gothic  age, 
Missal  with  the  blazoned  page, 
Whence,  O  Missal,  hither  come, 
From  what  dim  scriptorium  ? 

Whose  the  name  that  wrought  thee  thus, 
Ambrose  or  Theophilus, 
Bending,  through  the  waning  light, 
O'er  thy  vellum  scraped  and  white  ; 

Weaving  'twixt  thy  rubric  lines 
Sprays  and  leaves  and  quaint  designs : 
Setting  round  thy  border  scrolled 
Buds  of  purple  and  of  gold  ? 

Ah !  —  a  wondering  brotherhood, 
Doubtless,  round  that  artist  stood, 
Strewing  o'er  his  careful  ways 
Little  choruses  of  praise  ; 

Glad  when  his  deft  hand  would  paint 
Strife  of  Sathanas  and  Saint, 


TO  A  MISSAL.  43 

Or  in  secret  coign  entwist 
Jest  of  cloister  humorist. 

Well  the  worker  earned  his  wage, 
Bending  o'er  the  blazoned  page  ! 
Tired  the  hand  and  tired  the  wit 
Ere  the  final  Explicit ! 

Not  as  ours  the  books  of  old  — 
Things  that  steam  can  stamp  and  fold  ; 
Not  as  ours  the  books  of  yore  — 
Rows  of  type,  and  nothing  more. 

Then  a  book  was  still  a  Book, 
Where  a  wistful  man  might  look, 
Finding  something  through  the  whole, 
Beating  —  like  a  human  soul. 

In  that  growth  of  day  by  day, 
When  to  labor  was  to  pray, 
Surely  something  vital  passed 
To  the  patient  page  at  last ; 

Something  that  one  still  perceives 
Vaguely  present  in  the  leaves  ; 
Something  from  the  worker  lent ; 
Something  mute  —  but  eloquent ! 


44  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


THE   BOOK-PLATE'S   PETITION. 

BY  A  GENTLEMAN  OF  THE  TEMPLE. 

.  .  -r> Published  originally  in  '  Notes  and 

Austin  Dobson.  Queries; Januarys,  i88r. 

WHILE  cynic  Charles  still  trimm'd  the  vane 
'Twixt  Querouaille  and  Castlemaine, 
In  days  that  shocked  John  Evelyn, 
My  First  Possessor  fix'd  me  in. 
In  days  of  Dutchmen  and  of  frost, 
The  narrow  sea  with  James  I  crossed, 
Returning  when  once  more  began 
The  Age  of  Saturn  and  of  Anne. 
I  am  a  part  of  all  the  past ; 
I  knew  the  Georges,  first  and  last ; 
I  have  been  oft  where  else  was  none 
Save  the  great  wig  of  Addison  ; 
And  seen  on  shelves  beneath  me  grope 
The  little  eager  form  of  Pope. 
I  lost  the  Third  that  own'd  me  when 
French  Noailles  fled  at  Dettingen ; 
The  year  James  Wolfe  surpris'd  Quebec, 
The  Fourth  in  hunting  broke  his  neck ; 
The  day  that  William  Hogarth  dy'd, 
The  Fifth  one  found  me  in  Cheapside. 


THE  BOOK-PLATE'S  PETITION.  45 

This  was  a  Scholar,  one  of  those         • 

Whose  Greek  is  sounder  than  their  hose  ; 

He  lov'd  old  books,  and  nappy  ale, 

So  liv'd  at  Streatham,  next  to  Thrale. 

'T  was  there  this  stain  of  grease  I  boast 

Was  made  by  Dr.  Johnson's  toast. 

(He  did  it,  as  I  think,  for  spite ; 

My  Master  called  him  Jacobite  I) 

And  now  that  I  so  long  to-day 

Have  rested  post  discrimina. 

Safe  in  the  brass-wir'd  book-case  where 

I  watched  the  Vicar's  whit'ning  hair 

Must  I  these  travelPd  bones  inter 

In  some  Collector's  sepulchre  ! 

Must  I  be  torn  from  hence  and  thrown 

With  frontispiece  and  colopho?i  / 

With  vagrant  is's,  and  /'s  and  <9's, 

The  spoil  of  plunder'd  Folios  ! 

With  scraps  and  snippets  that  to  Me 

Are  naught  but  kitchen  company  / 

Nay,  rather,  Friend,  this  favor  grant  me  ; 

Tear  me  at  once ;  but  don't  transplant  me. 

Cheltenham, 
Sept.  31 ,  17Q2. 


46  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


OVER  THE  THRESHOLD  OF  MY  LIBRARY. 

Quoted  from  the  supplement  of  Dibdin's 
Henry  Drury.  *  Bibliomania?    where    the    original 

Latin  lines  may  be  found. 

FROM    mouldering   Abbey's   dark    Scriptorium 
brought, 
See  vellum  tomes  by  Monkish  labor  wrought ; 
Nor  yet  the  comma  born,  Papyri  see, 
And  uncial  letters'  wizard  grammary  5 
View  my  fif teeners  in  their  ragged  line  ; 
What  ink  !     What  linen  !    Only  known  long  syne  — 
Entering  where  Aldus  might  have  fixed  his  throne, 
Or  Harry  Stephens  coveted  his  own. 


THE   CHRYSALIS  OF  A  BOOKWORM.         47 


THE   CHRYSALIS   OF  A  BOOKWORM. 

Mauricb  F.  Eg  an.  From  l  Songs  and  Sonnets.'1    1885. 

I  READ,  O  friend,  no  pages  of  old  lore, 
Which  I  loved  well,  and  yet  the  flying  days, 
That  softly  passed  as  wind  through  green  spring 
ways 
And  left  a  perfume,  swift  fly  as  of  yore, 
Though  in  clear  Plato's  stream  I  look  no  more, 
Neither  with  Moschus  sing  Sicilian  lays, 
Nor  with  bold  Dante  wander  in  amaze, 
Nor  see  our  Will  the  Golden  Age  restore. 
I  read  a  book  to  which  old  books  are  new, 

And  new  books  old.     A  living  book  is  mine  — 
In  age,  three  years :  in  it  I  read  no  lies  — 
In  it  to  myriad  truths  I  find  the  clew  — 
A  tender,  little  child  :  but  I  divine 

Thoughts  high  as  Dante's  in  its  clear  blue  eyes. 


48  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


EPIGRAM. 

Tr„«xr„o  au~  ~~,w,~,„«:.,~\  Rendered  into  English  by  A.  Lang 

Evenus  (the  grammarian).  fc  ^  ,  Libraryf  j88/ 

PEST  of  the  Muses,  devourer  of  pages,  in  cran- 
nies that  lurkest, 
Fruits  of  the  Muses  to   taint,  labor  of   learning  to 

spoil ; 
Wherefore,  O  black-fleshed  worm !  wert  thou  born 

for  the  evil  thou  workest  ? 
Wherefore  thine  own  foul  form  shap'st  thou  with 
envious  toil  ? 


THE  BIBLIOMANIA.  49 


THE   BIBLIOMANIA. 

Hie,  inquis,  veto  quisquam  fuit  oletum. 
Pinge  duos  angues. 

Pers.  Sat.  i.  1.  108. 

T  „  "  An  Epistle  to  Richard Heber,  Esq." 

John  Ferriar.  Manchester,  April,  1809. 

WHAT   wild   desires,    what   restless   torments 
seize 
The  hapless  man,  who  feels  the  book-disease, 
If  niggard  Fortune  cramp  his  gen'rous  mind 
And  Prudence  quench  the  Spark  by  heaven  assign'd  ! 
With  wistful  glance  his  aching  eyes  behold 
The  Princeps-copy,  clad  in  blue  and  gold, 
Where  the  tall  Book-case,  with  partition  thin, 
Displays,  yet  guards  the  tempting  charms  within  : 
So  great  Facardin  view'd,  as  sages  *  tell, 
Fair  Crystalline  immur'd  in  lucid  cell. 

Not  thus  the  few,  by  happier  fortune  grae'd, 

And  blest,  like  you,  with  talents,  wealth,  and  taste, 

Who  gather  nobly,  with  judicious  hand, 

The  Muse's  treasures  from  each  letter'd  strand. 

For  you  the  Monk  illum'd  his  pictur'd  page, 

For  you  the  press  defies  the  Spoils  of  age  ; 

*  Sages,  Count  Hamilton,  in  the  '  Quatre  Facardins,'  and  Mr.  M. 
Lewis,  in  his  ■  Tales  of  Romance.' 


50  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Faustus  for  you  infernal  tortures  bore, 

For  you  Erasmus  *  starv'd  on  Adria's  shore. 

The  Folio-Aldus  loads  your  happy  Shelves, 

And  dapper  Elzevirs,  like  fairy  elves, 

Shew  their  light  forms  amidst  the  well-gilt  Twelves  : 

In  slender  type  the  Giolitos  shine, 

And  bold  Bodoni  stamps  his  Roman  line. 

For  you  the  Louvre  opes  its  regal  doors, 

And  either  Didot  lends  his  brilliant  stores : 

With  faultless  types,  and  costly  sculptures  bright, 

Ibarra's  Quixote  charms  your  ravish'd  sight : 

Laborde  in  splendid  tablets  shall  explain 

Thy  beauties,  glorious,  tho'  unhappy  Spain  ! 

O,  hallowed  name,  the  theme  of  future  years, 

Embalm'd  in  Patriot-blood,  and  England's  tears, 

Be  thine  fresh  honors  from  the  tuneful  tongue, 

By  Isis'  stream  which  mourning  Zion  sung  ! 

But  devious  oft'  from  ev'ry  classic  Muse, 
The  keen  Collector  meaner  paths  will  choose : 
And  first  the  Margin's  breadth  his  soul  employs, 
Pure,  snowy,  broad,  the  type  of  nobler  joys. 
In  vain  might  Homer  roll  the  tide  of  song, 
Or  Horace  smile,  or  Tully  charm  the  throng ; 
If  crost  by  Pallas'  ire,  the  trenchant  blade 
Or  too  oblique,  or  near,  the  edge  invade, 
The  Bibliomane  exclaims,  with  haggard  eye, 

"  No  Margin  !  "  turns  in  haste,  and  scorns  to  buy. 

* 

*  See  the  '  Opulentia  Sordida,'  in  his  '  Colloquies,'  where  he  com- 
plains feelingly  of  the  spare  Venetian  diet. 


THE  BIBLIOMANIA.  51 

He  turns  where  Pybus  rears  his  Atlas-head, 
Or  Madoc's  mass  conceals  its  veins  of  lead. 
The  glossy  lines  in  polish'd  order  stand, 
While  the  vast  margin  spreads  on  either  hand, 
Like  Russian  wastes,  that  edge  the  frozen  deep, 
Chill  with  pale  glare,  and  lull  to  mortal  sleep.* 

Or  English  books,  neglected  and  forgot, 

Excite  his  wish  in  many  a  dusty  lot : 

Whatever  trash  Midwinter  gave  to  day, 

Or  Harper's  rhiming  sons,  in  paper  gray, 

At  ev'ry  auction,  bent  on  fresh  supplies, 

He  cons  his  Catalogue  with  anxious  eyes : 

Where'er  the  slim  Italics  mark  the  page, 

Curious  and  rare  his  ardent  mind  engage. 

Unlike  the  Swans,  in  Tuscan  Song  display'd, 

He  hovers  eager  o'er  Oblivion's  Shade, 

To  snatch  obscurest  names  from  endless  night, 

And  give  Cokain  or  Fletcher  t  back  to  light. 

In  red  morocco  drest  he  loves  to  boast 

The  bloody  murder,  or  the  yelling  ghost ; 

Or  dismal  ballads,  sung  to  crouds  of  old, 

Now  cheaply  bought  for  thrice  their  weight  in  gold. 

*  It  may  be  said  that  Quintilian  recommends  margins ;  but  it  is 
with  a  view  to  their  being  occasionally  occupied  :  Debet  vacare  etiam 
locus,  in  quo  notentur  quae  scribentibus  solent  extra  ordinem,  id  est 
ex  aliis  quam  qui  sunt  in  manibus  loci,  occurrere.  Irrumpunt  enim  op- 
timi  nonnunquam  Sensus,  quos  neque  inserere  oportet,  neque  differre 
tutum  est.     l  Instit.'  lib.  x.  c.  3. 

He  was  therefore  no  Margin-man,  in  the  modern  sense. 

t  Fletcher.  A  translator  of  Martial.  A  very  bad  Poet,  but  exceed- 
ingly scarce. 


52  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Yet  to  th'  unhonor'd  dead  be  Satire  just ; 

Some  flow'rs*  "smell  sweet  and  blossom  in  their 

dust." 
'T  is  thus  ev'n  Shirley  boasts  a  golden  line, 
And  Lovelace  strikes,  by  fits,  a  note  divine. 
Th'  unequal  gleams  like  midnight-lightnings  play, 
And  deepen'd  gloom  succeeds,  in  place  of  day. 

I 

But  human  bliss  still  meets  some  envious  storm ; 
He  droops  to  view  his  Paynters'  mangled  form : 
Presumptuous  grief,  while  pensive  Taste  repines 
O'er  the  frail  relics  of  her  Attic  Shrines  ! 

0  for  that  power,  for  which  Magicians  vye. 

To  look  through  earth,  and  secret  hoards  descry ! 

1  'd  spurn  such  gems  as  Marinel  t  beheld, 
And  all  the  wealth  Aladdin's  cavern  held, 
Might  I  divine  in  what  mysterious  gloom 

The  rolls  of  sacred  bards  have  found  their  tomb  : 
Beneath  what  mould'ring  tower,  or  waste  champain, 
Is  hid  Menander,  sweetest  of  the  train  : 
Where  rests  Antimachus'  forgotten  lyre, 
Where  gentle  Sappho's  still  seductive  fire; 
Or  he,J  whom  chief  the  laughing  Muses  own, 

*  Only  the  actions  of  the  just 

Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust. 

Shirley. 
Perhaps  Shirley  had  in  view  this  passage  of  Persius,  — 
Nunc  non  6  tumulo,  fortunataque  favilla 
Nascentur  Violae  ? 

'  Sat.'  i.  1.  37. 
t  '  Faerie  Queene.' 
X  Aristophanes. 


THE  BIBLIOMANIA.  S3 

Yet  skiird  with  softest  accents  to  bemoan 
Sweet  Philomel  *  in  strains  so  like  her  own. 

The  menial  train  has  prov'd  the  Scourge  of  wit, 
Ev'n  Omar  burnt  less  Science  than  the  spit. 
Earthquakes  and  wars  remit  their  deadly  rage, 
But  ev'ry  feast  demands  some  fated  page. 
Ye  Towers  of  Julius,  f  ye  alone  remain 
Of  all  the  piles  that  saw  our  nation's  stain, 
When  Harry's  sway  opprest  the  groaning  realm, 
And  Lust  and  Rapine  seiz'd  the  wav'ring  helm. 
Then  ruffian-hands  defaced  the  sacred  fanes, 
Their  saintly  statues  and  their  storied  panes ; 
Then  from  the  chest,  with  ancient  art  embost, 
The  Penman's  pious  scrolls  were  rudely  tost ; ' 
Then  richest  manuscripts,  profusely  spread, 
The  brawny  Churls'  devouring  Oven  fed  : 
And  thence  Collectors  date  the  heav'nly  ire 
That  wrapt  Augusta's  domes  in  sheets  of  fire.  % 

Taste,  tho'  misled,  may  yet  some  purpose  gain, 
But  Fashion  guides  a  book-compelling  train.  § 
Once,  far  apart  from  Learning's  moping  crew, 
The  travell'd  beau  display'd  his  red-heel'd  shoe, 
Till  Orford  rose,  and  told  of  rhiming  Peers, 
Repeating  noble  words  to  polish'd  ears ;  || 

*  See  his  exquisite  hymn  to  the  Nightingale  in  his  "OpviOt?. 
t  Gray.  %  The  fire  of  London. 

§  Cloud-compelling  Jove.  —  Pope's  '  Iliad.' 
II  .  .  .  gaudent  praenomine  molles 
Auriculae. 

Juvenal. 


54  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Taught  the  gay  croud  to  prize  a  flutt'ring  name, 

In  trifling  toiPd,  nor  "  blush'd  to  find  it  fame." 

The  letter'd  fop,  now  takes  a  larger  scope, 

With  classic  furniture,  design 'd  by  Hope, 

(Hope  whom  Upholst'rers  eye  with  mute  despair, 

The  doughty  pedant  of  an  elbow-chair ;) 

Now  warm'd  by  Orford,  and  by  Granger  school'd, 

In  Paper-books,  superbly  gilt  and  tooPd, 

He  pastes,  from  injur'd  volumes  snipt  away, 

His  English  Heads,  in  chronicled  array. 

Torn  from  their  destin'd  page  (unworthy  meed 

Of  knightly  counsel,  and  heroic  deed) 

Not  Faithorne's  stroke,  nor  Field's  own  types  can 

save 
*  The  gallant  Veres,  and  one-eyed  Ogle  brave. 
Indignant  readers  seek  the  image  fled, 
And  curse  the  busy  fool,  who  wants  a  head. 

Proudly  he  shews,  with  many  a  smile  elate, 
The  scrambling  subjects  of  the  private  plate  ; 
While  Time  their  actions  and  their  names  bereaves, 
They  grin  for  ever  in  the  guarded  leaves. 

Like  Poets,  born,  in  vain  Collectors  strive 
To  cross  their  Fate,  and  learn  the  art  to  thrive. 
Like  Cacus,  bent  to  tame  their  struggling  will, 
The  Tyrant-passion  drags  them  backward  still : 

*  The  gallant  Veres  and  one-eyed  Ogle.  Three  fine  heads,  for  the 
sake  of  which,  the  beautiful  and  interesting  '  Commentaries '  of  Sir 
Francis  Veres  have  been  mutilated  by  the  Collectors  of  English  por- 
traits. 


THE  BIBLIOMANIA.  55 

Ev'n  I,  debarr'd  of  ease,  and  studious  hours, 
Confess,  mid'  anxious  toil,  its  lurking  pow'rs. 
How  pure  the  joy,  when  first  my  hands  unfold 
The  small,  rare  volume,  black  with  tarnish'd  gold ! 
The  Eye  skims  restless,  like  the  roving  bee, 
O'er  flowers  of  wit,  or  song,  or  repartee, 
While  sweet  as  Springs,  new-bubbling  from  the  stone, 
Glides  through  the  breast  some  pleasing  theme  un- 
known. 
Now  dipt  in  Rossi's  *  terse  and  classic  style, 
His  harmless  tales  awake  a  transient  smile. 
Now  Bouchet's  motley  stores  my  thoughts  arrest, 
With  wond'rous  reading,  and  with  learned  jest. 
Bouchet  f  whose  tomes  a  grateful  line  demand, 
The  valued  gift  of  Stanley's  lib'ral  hand. 
Now  sadly  pleased,  through  faded  Rome  I  stray, 
And  mix  regrets  with  gentle  Du  Bellay  ;  % 
Or  turn,  with  keen  delight,  the  curious  page, 
Where  hardy  Pasquin  §  braves  the  Pontiff's  rage. 

But  D n's  strains  should  tell  the  sad  reverse, 

When  Business  calls,  invet'rate  foe  to  verse  ! 
Tell  how  "  the  Demon  claps  his  iron  hands," 
"  Waves  his  lank  locks,  and  scours  along  the  lands." 

*  Generally  known  by  the  name  of  James  Nicius  Erythraeus.  The 
allusion  is  to  his  '  Pinacotheca.' 

t  *'  Les  Series  de  Gillaume  Bouchet,'  a  book  of  uncommon  rarity. 
I  possess  a  handsome  copy  by  the  kindness  of  Colonel  Stanley. 

\  '  Les  Regrets,'  by  Joachim  du  Bellay,  contain  a  most  amusing  and 
instructive  account  of  Rome  in  the  sixteenth  century. 

§  (  Pasquillorum  Tomi  duo.' 


56  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Through  wintry  blasts,  or  summer's  fire  I  go, 
To  scenes  of  danger,  and  to  sights  of  woe. 
Ev'n  when  to  Margate  ev'ry  Cockney  roves, 
And  brainsick-poets  long  for  shelt'ring  groves, 
Whose  lofty  shades  exclude  the  noontide  glow, 
While  Zephyrs  breathe,  and  waters  trill  below,* 
Me  rigid  Fate  averts,  by  tasks  like  these, 
From  heav'nly  musings,  and  from  letter'd  ease. 

Such  wholesome  checks  the  better  Genius  sends, 
From  dire  rehearsals  to  protect  our  friends  : 
Else  when  the  social  rites  our  joys  renew, 
The  stuff'd  Portfolio  would  alarm  your  view, 
Whence  volleying  rhimes  your  patience  would  o'er- 

come, 
And,  spite  of  kindness,  drive  you  early  home. 
So  when  the  traveller's  hasty  footsteps  glide 
Near  smoking  lava  on  Vesuvio's  side, 
Hoarse-mutt'ring  thunders  from  the  depths  proceed, 
And  spouting  fires  incite  his  eager  speed. 
Appall'd  he  flies,  while  rattling  show'rs  invade, 
Invoking  ev'ry  Saint  for  instant  aid  : 
Breathless,  amaz'd,  he  seeks  the  distant  shore, 
And  vows  to  tempt  the  dang'rous  gulph  no  more. 

*  Errare  per  lucos,  aemaenae, 
Quos  et  aquas  subeunt  et  auras. 

HORAT. 


TRIOLET  TO  HER  HUSBAND.  57 


TRIOLET  TO   HER   HUSBAND. 

„    -,        ..  .  _  Rendered  into  English  by  A.  Lang  in 

F.  Fertiault.  tlie  <  Library?    1881. 

BOOKS  rule  thy  mind,  so  let  it  be  ! 
Thy  heart  is  mine,  and  mine  alone. 
What  more  can  I  require  of  thee  ? 
Books  rule  thy  mind,  so  let  it  be  ! 
Contented  when  thy  bliss  I  see, 
I  wish  a  world  of  books  thine  own. 
Books  rule  thy  mind,  so  let  it  be ! 
Thy  heart  is  mine,  and  mine  alone. 


5^  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


A  NOOK  AND  A  BOOK. 

William  Freeland.  From  \A  ****  SonZ  and  other  Po' 

evis.      Joo2. 

GIVE  me  a  nook  and  a  book, 
And  let  the  proud  world  spin  round ; 
Let  it  scramble  by  hook  or  by  crook 

For  wealth  or  a  name  with  a  sound. 
You  are  welcome  to  amble  your  ways, 

Aspirers  to  place  or  to  glory ; 
May  big  bells  jangle  your  praise, 

And  golden  pens  blazon  your  story  ! 
For  me,  let  me  dwell  in  my  nook, 
Here  by  the  curve  of  this  brook, 
That  croons  to  the  tune  of  my  book, 
Whose  melody  wafts  me  forever 
On  the  waves  of  an  unseen  river. 

Give  me  a  book  and  a  nook 

Far  away  from  the  glitter  and  strife  ; 
Give  me  a  staff  and  a  crook, 

The  calm  and  the  sweetness  of  life ; 
Let  me  pause  —  let  me  brood  as  I  list, 

On  the  marvels  of  heaven's  own  spinning  — 
Sunlight  and  moonlight  and  mist, 

Glorious  without  slaying  or  sinning. 


A  NOOK  AND  A  BOOK.  59 

Vain  world,  let  me  reign  in  my  nook, 
King  of  this  kingdom,  my  book, 
A  region  by  fashion  forsook ; 
Pass  on,  ye  lean  gamblers  for  glory, 
Nor  mar  the  sweet  tune  of  my  story ! 


\ 


6o  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


THE   SULTAN   OF   MY  BOOKS. 

There  is  many  a  true  word  spoken  in  doggerel.  —  Czech  Folk-Song. 
Edmund  Gosse.  Written  for  the  present  collection. 

COME  hither,  my  Wither, 
My  Suckling,  my  Dryden ! 
My  Hudibras,  hither  ! 

My  Heinsius  from  Leyden  ! 
Dear  Play-books  in  quarto, 

Fat  tomes  in  brown  leather, 
Stray  never  too  far  to 

Come  back  here  together ! 

Books  writ  on  occult  and 

Heretical  letters, 
I,  I  am  the  Sultan 

Of  you  and  your  betters. 
I  need  you  all  round  me ; 

When  wits  have  grown  muddy, 
My  best  hours  have  found  me 

With  you  in  my  study. 

I  Ve  varied  departments 
To  give  my  books  shelter ; 

Shelves,  open  apartments 
For  tomes  helter-skelter ; 


THE  SULTAN  OF  MY  BOOKS,  61 

There  are  artisans'  flats,  fit 

For  common  editions,  — 
I  find  them,  as  that 's  fit, 

Good  wholesome  positions. 

But  books  that  I  cherish 

Live  under  glass  cases  ; 
In  the  waste  lest  they  perish 

I  build  them  oases  ; 
Where  gas  cannot  find  them, 

Where  worms  cannot  grapple, 
Those  panes  hold  behind  them, 

My  eye  and  its  apple. 

And  here  you  see  flirting 

Fine  folks  of  distinction  : 
Unique  books  just  skirting 

The  verge  of  extinction ; 
Old  texts  with  one  error 

And  long  notes  upon  it ; 
The  *  Magistrates'  Mirror ' 

(With  Nottingham's  sonnet) ; 

Tooled  Russias  to  gaze  on, 

Moroccos  to  fondle, 
My  Denham,  in  blazon, 

My  vellum-backed  Vondel, 
My  Marvell,  —  a  copy 

Was  never  seen  taller,  — 
My  Jones's  *  Love's  Poppy,' 

My  dear  little  Waller ; 


62  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

My  Sandys,  a  real  jewel ! 

My  exquisite,  *  Adamo  ! ' 
My  Dean  Donne's  '  Death's  Duel !  ' 

My  Behn  (naughty  madam  O  !)  ; 
Ephelia's  !     Orinda's  ! 

Ma'am  Pix  and  Ma'am  Barker !  — 
The  rhymsters  you  find,  as 

The  morals  grow  darker ! 

I  never  upbraid  these 

Old  periwigged  sinners, 
Their  songs  and  light  ladies, 

Their  dances  and  dinners ; 
My  book-shelf 's  a  haven 

From  storms  puritanic,  — 
We  sure  may  be  gay  when 

Of  death  we  've  no  panic  ! 

My  parlor  is  little, 

And  poor  are  its  treasures  ; 
All  pleasures  are  brittle, 

And  so  are  my  pleasures  ; 
But  though  I  shall  never 

Be  Beckford  or  Locker, 
While  Fate  does  not  sever 

The  door  from  the  knocker, 

No  book  shall  tap  vainly 

At  latch  or  at  lattice 
(If  costumed  urbanely, 

And  worth  our  care,  that  is)  ; 


THE  SULTAN  OF  MY  BOOKS.  6$ 

My  poets  from  slumber 

Shall  rise  in  morocco, 
To  shield  the  new  comer 

From  storm  or  sirocco. 

I  might  prate  thus  for  pages, 

The  theme  is  so  pleasant  \ 
But  the  gloom  of  the  ages 

Lies  on  me  at  present ; 
All  business  and  fear  to 

The  cold  world  I  banish. 
Hush !  like  the  Ameer,  to 

My  harem  I  vanish  ! 


64  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS, 


OUR  BOOK-SHELVES. 

Thomas  Gordon  Hakb.  From  the  '  State ■  of  April  17,  18S 

WHAT  solace  would  those  books  afford, 
In  gold  and  vellum  cover, 
Could  men  but  say  them  word  for  word 
Who  never  turn  them  over ! 

Books  that  must  know  themselves  by  heart 

As  by  endowment  vital, 
Could  they  their  truths  to  us  impart 

Not  stopping  with  the  title  ! 

Line  after  line  their  wisdom  flows, 

Page  after  page  repeating  ; 
Yet  never  on  our  ears  bestows 

A  single  sound  of  greeting. 

As  thus  they  lie  upon  the  shelves, 

Such  wisdom  in  their  pages, 
Do  they  rehearse  it  to  themselves, 

Or  rest  like  silent  sages  ? 

One  book  we  know  such  fun  invokes, 
As  well  were  worth  the  telling  : 

Must  it  not  chuckle  o'er  the  jokes 
That  it  is  ever  spelling  ? 


OUR  BOOK-SHELVES.  65 

And  for  the  Holy  Bible  there, 

It  greets  us  with  mild  teaching ; 
Though  no  one  its  contents  may  hear, 

Does  it  not  go  on  preaching  ? 


66  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


TO  HIS  BOOK. 

Robert  Herrick.  Prefixed  to  lHesperides.y    1648. 

WHILE  thou  didst  keep  thy  candor  undefiled, 
Dearly  I  loved  thee,  as  my  first-born  child ; 
But  when  I  sent  thee  wantonly  to  roam 
From  house  to  house,  and  never  stay  at  home ; 
I  brake  my  bonds  of  love,  and  bade  thee  go, 
Regardless  whether  well  thou  sped'st  or  no, 
On  with  thy  fortunes  then,  whate'er  they  be ; 
If  good  I  '11  smile,  if  bad  I  '11  sigh  for  thee. 


TO  HIS  BOOK.  67 


TO   HIS    BOOK. 

Robert  Herrick. 

MAKE  haste  away,  and  let  one  be 
A  friendly  patron  unto  thee  ; 
Lest,  rapt  from  hence,  I  see  thee  lie 
Torn  for  the  use  of  pastery  j 
Or  see  thy  injured  leaves  serve  well 
To  make  loose  gowns  for  mackerel ; 
Or  see  the  grocers,  in  a  trice, 
Make  hoods  of  thee  to  serve  out  spice. 


68  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS 


TO   HIS   BOOKS. 


Imitated  by  A  ustin  Dobson  from  tlie 
''Epistles]  i.  20,  for  the  present  col- 


Q.  Horatius  Flaccus. 

lection 


FOR  mart  and  street  you  seem  to  pine 
With  restless  glances,  Book  of  mine  ! 
Still  craving  on  some  stall  to  stand, 
Fresh  pumiced  from  the  binder's  hand. 
You  chafe  at  locks,  and  burn  to  quit 
Your  modest  haunt  and  audience  fit, 
For  hearers  less  discriminate. 
I  reared  you  up  for  no  such  fate. 
Still,  if  you  must  be  published,  go ; 
But  mind,  you  can't  come  back,  you  know ! 

"  What  have  I  done  ?  "  —  I  hear  you  cry, 

And  writhe  beneath  some  critic's  eye ; 

1  What  did  I  want  ? '  —  when,  scarce  polite, 

They  do  but  yawn,  and  roll  you  tight. 

And  yet,  methinks,  if  I  may  guess 

(Putting  aside  your  heartlessness 

In  leaving  me,  and  this  your  home), 

You  should  find  favor,  too,  at  Rome. 

That  is,  they  '11  like  you  while  you  're  young. 

When  you  are  old,  you  '11  pass  among 

The  Great  Unwashed,  —  then  thumbed  and  sped, 


TO  HIS  BOOKS.  69 

Be  fretted  of  slow  moths,  unread, 

Or  to  Ilerda  you  '11  be  sent, 

Or  Utica,  for  banishment ! 

And  I,  whose  counsel  you  disdain, 

At  that  your  lot  shall  laugh  amain, 

Wryly,  as  he  who,  like  a  fool, 

Pushed  o'er  the  cliff  his  restive  mule. 

Stay,  there  is  worse  behind.     In  age 

They  e'en  may  take  your  babbling  page 

In  some  remotest  "  slum  "  to  teach 

Mere  boys  the  rudiments  of  speech ! 

But  go.     When  on  warm  days  you  see 

A  chance  of  listeners,  speak  of  me. 

Tell  them  I  soared  from  low  estate, 

A  freedman's  son,  to  higher  fate 

(That  is,  make  up  to  me  in  worth 

What  you  must  take  in  point  of  birth)  ; 

Then  tell  them  that  I  won  renown 

In  peace  and  war,  and  pleased  the  Town ; 

Paint  me  as  early  gray,  and  one 

Little  of  stature,  fond  of  sun, 

Quick-tempered,  too,  —  but  nothing  more. 

Add  (if  they  ask)  I  'm  forty-four, 

Or  was,  the  year  that  over  us 

Both  Lollius  ruled  and  Lepidus. 


70  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


SONNET. 

Found  by  Mr.  Alexander  Ireland  in 
Leigh  Hunt.  the  London  '  Examiner*  of  Decem- 

ber 24,  1815,  and  not  anywhere  in- 
cluded, in  the  poet's  collected  works. 

WERE  I  to  name,  out  of  the  times  gone  by, 
The  poets  dearest  to  me,  I  should  say, 
Pulci  for  spirits,  and  a  fine,  free  way ; 
Chaucer  for  manners,  and  close,  silent  eye  ; 
Milton  for  classic  taste,  and  harp  strung  high  ; 
Spenser  for  luxury,  and  sweet,  sylvan  play ; 
Horace  for  chatting  with,  from  day  to  day  ; 
Shakspere  for  all,  but  most  society. 

But  which  take  with  me,  could  I  take  but  one  ? 
Shakspere,  as  long  as  I  was  unoppressed 
With  the  world's  weight,  making  sad  thoughts  in- 
tenser  ; 
But  did  I  wish,  out  of  the  common  sun, 
To  lay  a  wounded  heart  in  leafy  rest, 
And  dream  of  things  far  off  and  healing,  —  Spenser. 


MY  BOOKS.  71 


MY   BOOKS. 

Willis  Fletcher  Johnson.  From  the  Boston  ''Transcript? 

ON  my  study  shelves  they  stand, 
Well  known  all  to  eye  and  hand, 
Bound  in  gorgeous  cloth  of  gold, 
In  morocco  rich  and  old. 
Some  in  paper,  plain  and  cheap, 
Some  in  muslin,  calf,  and  sheep  ; 
Volumes  great  and  volumes  small, 
Ranged  along  my  study  wall ; 
But  their  contents  are  past  finding 
By  their  size  or  by  their  binding. 

There  is  one  with  gold  agleam, 
Like  the  Sangreal  in  a  dream, 
Back  and  boards  in  every  part 
Triumph  of  the  binder's  art ; 
Costing  more,  't  is  well  believed, 
Than  the  author  e'er  received. 
But  its  contents  ?     Idle  tales, 
Flappings  of  a  shallop's  sails  ! 
In  the  treasury  of  learning 
Scarcely  worth  a  penny's  turning. 

Here  's  a  tome  in  paper  plain, 

Soiled  and  torn  and  marred  with  stain, 


72  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Cowering  from  each  statelier  book 
In  the  darkest,  dustiest  nook. 
Take  it  down,  and  lo  !  each  page 
Breathes  the  wisdom  of  a  sage  : 
Weighed  a  thousand  times  in  gold, 
Half  its  worth  would  not  be  told, 
For  all  truth  of  ancient  story 
Crowns  each  line  with  deathless  glory. 

On  my  study  shelves  they  stand  ; 
But  my  study  walls  expand, 
As  thought's  pinions  are  unfurled, 
Till  they  compass  all  the  world. 
Endless  files  go  marching  by, 
Men  of  lowly  rank  and  high, 
Some  in  broadcloth,  gem-adorned, 
Some  in  homespun,  fortune-scorned  ; 
But  God's  scales  that  all  are  weighed  in 
Heed  not  what  each  man  's  arrayed  in ! 


TO  MY  BOOKSELLER.  73 


TO  MY  BOOKSELLER. 

This  is  from  the  third  of  the  floe? s  books 
Ben  JoNSON.  of  epigrams.    Bucklersbury  was  the 

street  most  affected  by  grocers   and 
apothecaries. 

THOU  that  mak'st  gain  thy  end,  and  wisely  well, 
Call'st  a  book  good,  or  bad,  as  it  doth  sell, 
Use  mine  so  too  ;  I  give  thee  leave  ;  but  crave, 
For  the  luck's  sake,  it  thus  much  favor  have, 
To  lie  upon  thy  stall,  till  it  be  sought ; 
Not  offered,  as  it  made  suit  to  be  bought ; 
Nor  have  my  title-leaf  on  posts  or  walls, 
Or  in  cleft-sticks,  advanced  to  make  calls 
For  termers,  or  some  clerk-like  serving-man, 
Who  scarce  can  spell  thy  hard  names ;  whose  knight 

less  can. 
If  without  these  vile  arts  it  will  not  sell, 
Send  it  to  Bucklersbury,  there  't  will  well. 


74  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


TO  SIR  HENRY  GOODYERE. 

This  is  the  eighty-sixth  of  the  poet' }s  first 

book  of  epigrams,   and,  like   its   im- 

Bkn  JONSON.  mediate  predecessor,  it  was  addressed 

to  a  gentleman  bound  in  bonds  of 
friendship  to  many  of  the  men  of 
genius  of  his  time. 

WHEN    I   would    know  thee,    Goodyere,   my 
thought  looks 
Upon  thy  well-made  choice  of  friends  and  books ; 
Then  do  I  love  thee,  and  behold  thy  ends 
In  making  thy  friends  books,  and  thy  books  friends  : 
Now  must  I  give  thy  life  and  deed  the  voice 
Attending  such  a  study,  such  a  choice  ; 
Where,  though  \  be   love  that  to  thy  praise  doth 

move, 
It  was  a  knowledge  that  begat  that  love. 


IN  THE  ALBUM  OF  LUCY  BARTON,         75 


IN  THE  ALBUM  OF  LUCY  BARTON. 

Charles  Lamb.  Written  in  1824  for  the  daughter  of  his 

friend  Bernard  Barton. 

LITTLE  Book,  surnamed  of  white, 
Clean  as  yet  and  fair  to  sight, 
Keep  thy  attribution  right. 

Never  disproportioned  scrawl ; 
Ugly  blot,  that  's  worse  than  all ; 
On  thy  maiden  clearness  fall ! 

In  each  letter,  here  designed, 
Let  the  reader  emblemed  find 
Neatness  of  the  owner's  mind. 

Gilded  margins  count  a  sin, 
Let  thy  leaves  attraction  win 
By  the  golden  rules  within ; 

Saying  fetched  from  sages  old  ; 
Laws  which  Holy  Writ  unfold, 
Worthy  to  be  graved  in  gold : 

Lighter  fancies  not  excluding  ; 
Blameless  wit,  with  nothing  rude  in, 
Sometimes  mildly  interluding, 

/ 


76  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Amid  strains  of  graver  measure  : 
Virtue's  self  hath  oft  her  pleasure 
In  sweet  Muses'  groves  of  leisure. 

Riddles  dark,  perplexing  sense  ; 

Darker  meanings  of  offence  ; 

What  but  shades  —  he  banished  hence. 

Whitest  thoughts  in  whitest  dress, 
Candid  meanings,  best  express 
Mind  of  quiet  Quakeress. 


BALLADE  OF  THE  BOOK-HUNTER.  77 


BALLADE  OF  THE  BOOK-HUNTER. 

A.  Lang.  Front  i  Ballades  in  Blue  China?    1880. 

TN  torrid  heats  of  late  July, 
A     In  March,  beneath  the  bitter  bise, 
He  book-hunts  while  the  loungers  fly,  — 
He  book-hunts,  though  December  freeze ; 
In  breeches  baggy  at  the  knees, 
And  heedless  of  the  public  jeers, 
For  these,  for  these,  he  hoards  his  fees,  — 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 

No  dismal  stall  escapes  his  eye, 
He  turns  o'er  tomes  of  low  degrees, 
There  soiled  Romanticists  may  lie, 
Or  Restoration  comedies ; 
Each  tract  that  flutters  in  the  breeze 
For  him  is  charged  with  hopes  and  fears, 
In  mouldy  novels  fancy  sees 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs  ! 

With  restless  eyes  that  peer  and  spy, 
Sad  eyes  that  heed  not  skies  nor  trees, 
In  dismal  nooks  he  loves  to  pry, 
Whose  motto  evermore  is  Spes  I 


78  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

But  ah  !  the  fabled  treasure  flees ; 
Grown  rarer  with  the  fleeting  years, 
In  rich  men's  shelves  they  take  their  ease, 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs  ! 

ENVOY. 

Prince,  all  the  things  thaj:  tease  and  please, 
Fame,  love,  wealth,  kisses,  cheers,  and  tears, 
What  are  they  but  such  toys  as  these  — 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs  ? 


BALLADE   OF  TRUE    WISDOM,  79 


BALLADE  OF  TRUE  WISDOM. 

A.  Lang.  From  'Ballades  in  Blue  China?    1880. 

WHILE  others  are  asking  for  beauty  or  fame, 
Or  praying   to  know  that  for  which  they 
should  pray, 
Or  courting  Queen  Venus,  that  affable  dame, 
Or  chasing  the  Muses  the  weary  and  gray, 
The  sage  has  found  out  a  more  excellent  way,  — 
To  Pan  and  to  Pallas  his  incense  he  showers, 
And  his  humble  petition  puts  up  day  by  day, 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 

Inventors  may  bow  to  the  God  that  is  lame, 
And  crave  from  the  light  of  his  stithy  a  ray ; 
Philosophers  kneel  to  the  God  without  name, 
Like  the  people  of  Athens,  agnostics  are  they ; 
The  hunter  a  fawn  to  Diana  will  slay, 
The  maiden  wild  roses  will  wreathe  for  the  Hours,  — 
But  the  wise  man  will  ask,  ere  libation  he  pay, 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 

Oh  grant  me  a  life  without  pleasure  or  blame 

(As  mortals  count  pleasure  who  rush  through  their 

day 
With  a  speed  to  which  that  of  the  tempest  is  tame). 


80  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Oh  grant  me  a  house  by  the  beach  of  a  bay, 
Where  the  waves  can  be  surly  in  winter,  and  play 
With  the  sea-weed  in  summer,  ye  bountiful  powers ! 
And  I  'd  leave  all  the  hurry,  the  noise,  and  the  fray, 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 

ENVOY. 

Gods,  give  or  withhold  it !     Your  "  yea  "  and  your 

"  nay  " 
Are  immutable,  heedless  of  outcry  of  ours  : 
But  life  is  worth  living,  and  here  we  would  stay 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 


BALLADE  OF  THE  BOOKMAN'S  PARADISE.    8 1 


BALLADE  OF  THE  BOOKMAN'S  PARADISE. 

A.  Lang.  From  '  Rhymes  a  la  Mode?   188, 

THERE  is  a  Heaven,  or  here,  or  there, — 
A  Heaven  there  is,  for  me  and  you, 
Where  bargains  meet  for  purses  spare, 
Like  ours,  are  not  so  far  and  few. 
Thuanus'  bees  go  humming  through 
The  learned  groves,  'neath  rainless  skies, 
O'er  volumes  old  and  volumes  new, 
Within  that  Bookman's  Paradise  ! 

There  treasures  bound  for  Longepierre 
Keep  brilliant  their  morocco  blue, 
There  Hookes'  (  Amanda  \  is  not  rare, 
Nor  early  tracts  upon  Peru  ! 
Racine  is  common  as  Rotrou, 
No  Shakspere  Quarto  search  defies, 
And  Caxtons  grow  as  blossoms  grew, 
Within  that  Bookman's  Paradise  ! 

There  's  Eve,  —  not  our  first  mother  fair,  — 
But  Clovis  Eve,  a  binder  true ; 
Thither  does  Bauzonnet  repair, 
Derome,  Le  Gascon,  Padeloup  ! 


82  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

But  never  come  the  cropping  crew, 
That  dock  a  volume's  honest  size, 
Nor  they  that  "  letter  "  backs  askew, 
Within  that  Bookman's  Paradise  ! 

ENVOY. 

Friend,  do  not  Heber  and  De  Thou, 
And  Scott,  and  Southey,  kind  and  wise, 
La  chasse  au  boaquin  still  pursue 
Within  that  Bookman's  Paradise  ? 


THE  ROWFANT  BOOKS.  83 


THE   ROWFANT  BOOKS. 

Ballade  en  guise  de  rondeau,  written  for 
A.  Lang.  the  catalogue  of  Mr.  Frederick  Locker's 

books. 

THE  Rowfant  books,  how  fair  they  show, 
The  Quarto  quaint,  the  Aldine  tall, 
Print,  autograph,  portfolio  ! 

Back  from  the  outer  air  they  call, 
The  athletes  from  the  Tennis  ball, 
This  Rhymer  from  his  rod  and  hooks,  — 
Would  I  could  sing  them,  one  and  all,  — 
The  Rowfant  books  ! 

The  Rowfant  books  !     In  sun  and  snow 

They  're  dear,  but  most  when  tempests  fall ; 
The  folio  towers  above  the  row 

As  once,  o'er  minor  prophets, —  Saul ! 

What  jolly  jest  books,  and  what  small 
"  Dear  dumpy  Twelves  "  to  fill  the  nooks. 

You  do  not  find  on  every  stall 
The  Rowfant  books ! 

The  Rowfant  books  !     These  long  ago 
Were  chained  within  some  College  hall ; 

These  manuscripts  retain  the  glow 
Of  many  a  colored  capital ; 


84  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

While  yet  the  satires  keep  their  gall, 
While  the  Pastissier  puzzles  cooks, 
Theirs  is  a  joy  that  does  not  pall,  — 
The  Rowfant  books  ! 

ENVOY. 

The  Rowfant  books,  —  ah,  magical 
As  famed  Armida's  golden  looks, 
They  hold  the  Rhymer  for  their  thrall,  - 
The  Rowfant  books  ! 


THE  ROWFANT  LIBRARY.  85 


THE  ROWFANT  LIBRARY. 

A.  Lang.  Written  for  the  catalogue  of  Mr.  Frederick 

Locker ss  books. 

I  MIND  me  of  the  Shepherd's  saw, 
For,  when  men  spoke  of  Heaven,  quoth  he, 
"  It  's  everything  that 's  bright  and  braw, 
But  Bourhope's  good  enough  for  me," 

Among  the  green  deep  bosomed  hills 
That  guard  St.  Mary's  Loch  it  lies, 

The  silence  of  the  pastures  fills 
That  yeoman's  homely  paradise  ! 

Enough  for  him  his  mountain  lake, 

His  glen  the  burn  goes  singing  through ; 

And  Rowfant,  when  the  thrushes  wake, 
Might  well  seem  Paradise  to  you  ! 

For  all  is  old,  and  tried,  and  dear, 

And  all  is  fair,  and  all  about 
The  brook  that  murmurs  from  the  mere 

Is  dimpled  with  the  rising  trout. 

And  when  the  skies  of  shorter  days 
Are  dark,  and  all  the  paths  are  mire, 


86  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

How  kindly  o'er  your  Books  the  blaze 
Sports  from  the  cheerful  study  fire ; 

O'er  Quartos,  where  our  Fathers  read 
Entranced,  the  Book  of  Shakspere's  play, 

O'er  all  that  Poe  has  dreamed  of  dread, 
And  all  that  Herrick  sang  of  gay  ! 

Rare  First  Editions,  duly  prized, 
Among  them  dearest  far  I  rate 

The  tome  where  Walton's  hand  revised 
His  magical  receipts  for  bait. 

Happy,  who  rich  in  toys  like  these 

Forgets  a  weary  nation's  ills, 
Who,  from  his  study  window  sees 

The  circle  of  the  Sussex  hills ! 

But  back  to  town  my  Muse  must  fly, 

And  taste  the  smoke,  and  list  to  them 
Who  cry  the  News,  and  seem  to  cry 
(With  each  Gladstonian  victory), 
Woe,  woe  unto  Jerusalem  !  # 

*  During  the  General  Election,  November,  1885. 


GHOSTS  IN   THE  LIBRARY.  87 


GHOSTS  IN  THE  LIBRARY. 

A.  Lang.  From  ■  LongmatCs  Magazine?  July,  1886. 

SUPPOSE,  when  now  the  house  is  dumb, 
When  lights  are  out,  and  ashes  fall,  — 
Suppose  their  ancient  owners  come 

To  claim  our  spoils  of  shop  and  stall, 
Ah  me  !  within  the  narrow  hall 

How  strange  a  mob  would  meet  and  go, 
What  famous  folk  would  haunt  them  all, 
Octavo,  quarto,  folio  ! 

The  great  Napoleon  lays  his  hand 

Upon  this  eagle-headed  N, 
That  marks  for  his  a  pamphlet  banned 

By  all  but  scandal-loving  men,  — 
A  libel  from  some  nameless  den 

Of  Frankfort  —  Amaud,  a  la  Sphere, 
Wherein  one  spilt,  with  venal  pen, 

Lies  o'er  the  loves  of  Moliere.* 

Another  shade  —  he  does  not  see 
"  Boney,"  the  foeman  of  his  race  — 

*  '  Histoire  des  Intrigues  Amoureuses  de  Moliere  et  de  celles  de  sa 
femme.  (A  la  Sphere.)  A  Francfort,  chez  Frederic  Arnaud, 
mdcxcvii.'  This  anonymous  tract  has  actually  been  attributed, 
among  others,  to  Racine.  The  copy  referred  to  is  marked  with  a 
large  N  in  red,  with_an  eagle's  head. 


88  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

The  great  Sir  Walter,  this  is  he 

With  that  grave  homely  Border  face. 

He  claims  his  poem  of  the  chase 

That  rang  Benvoirlich's  valley  through  ; 

And  this,  that  doth  the  lineage  trace 
And  fortunes  of  the  bold  Buccleuch  ;• 

For  these  were  his,  and  these  he  gave 

To  one  who  dwelt  beside  the  Peel, 
That  murmurs  with  its  tiny  wave 

To  join  the  Tweed  at  Ashestiel. 
Now  thick  as  motes  the  shadows  wheel, 

And  find  their  own,  and  claim  a  share 
Of  books  wherein  Ribou  did  deal, 

Or  Roulland  sold  to  wise  Colbert.t 

What  famous  folk  of  old  are  here ! 

A  royal  duke  comes  down  to  us, 
And  greatly  wants  his  Elzevir, 

His  Pagan  tutor,  Lucius.t 
And  Beckford  claims  an  amorous 

Old  heathen  in  morocco  blue  ;  § 

*  ■  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,'  1810. 
*  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,'  1806. 

"  To  Mrs.  Robert  Laidlaw,  Peel.     From  the  Author." 
f  '  Dictys   Cretensis.'     Apud  Lambertum   Roulland.     Lut.  Paris. 
1680.    In  red  morocco,  with  the  arms  of  Colbert. 

I  '  L.  Annaei  Senecae  Opera  Omnia.'     Lug.     Bat.,  apud  Elzevirios. 
1649.     With  book-plate  of  the  Duke  of  Sussex. 

§  *  Stratonis  Epigrammata.'     Altenburgi,  1764.     Straton  bound  up 
in  one  volume  with  Epictetus !     From  the  Beckford  library. 


GHOSTS  IN  THE  LIBRARY.  89 

And  who  demands  Eobanus 

But  stately  Jacques  Auguste  de  Thou !  * 

They  come,  the  wise,  the  great,  the  true, 

They  jostle  on  the  narrow  stair, 
The  frolic  Countess  de  Verrue, 

Lamoignon,  ay,  and  Longepierre, 
The  new  and  elder  dead  are  there  — 

The  lords  of  speech,  and  song,  and  pen, 
Gambetta,t  Schlegel,t  and  the  rare 

Drummond  of  haunted  Hawthornden.§ 

Ah,  and  with  those,  a  hundred  more, 

Whose  names,  whose  deeds,  are  quite  forgot : 
Brave  '  Smiths  '  and  '  Thompsons  '  by  the  score, 

Scrawled  upon  many  a  shabby  *  lot.' 
This  play-book  was  the  joy  of  Pott  ||  — 

Pott,  for  whom  now  no  mortal  grieves. 
Our  names,  like  his,  remembered  not, 

Like  his,  shall  flutter  on  fly-leaves  ! 

*  *  Opera  Helii  Eobani  Hessi.'  Yellow  morocco,  with  the  first  arms 
of  De  Thou.  Include  a  poem  addressed  "  Lange,  decus  meum." 
Quantity  of  penultimate  "  Eobanus  "  taken  for  granted,  metri  gratid. 

t 'La  Journ^e  du  Chretien.'  Coutances,  1831.  With  inscription, 
•  L6on  Gambetta.     Rue  St.  Honore\    Janvier  1,  1848." 

t  Villoison's  *  Homer.'  Venice,  1788.  With  Tessier's  ticket  and 
Schlegel's  book-plate. 

§  '  Les  Essais  de  Michel.'  Seigneur  de  Montaigne.  "  Pour  Francois 
le  Febvre  de  Lyon,  1695."  With  autograph  of  Gul.  Drummond,  and 
cipresso  e  palma. 

||  "  The  little  old  foxed  Moliere,"  once  the  property  of  William  Pott, 
unknown  to  fame. 


90  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

At  least  in  pleasant  company 

We  bookish  ghosts,  perchance,  may  flit ; 
A  man  may  turn  a  page,  and  sigh, 

Seeing  one's  name,  to  think  of  it. 
Beauty,  or  Poet,  Sage,  or  Wit, 

May  ope  our  book,  and  muse  awhile, 
And  fall  into  a  dreaming  fit, 

As  now  we  dream,  and  wake,  and  smile  ! 


THE  BOOK  BATTALION.  91 


THE  BOOK  BATTALION. 

George  Parsoi's  Lathrop.  Written  for  the  present  collection. 

WHEREVER  I  go,  there  's  a  trusty  battalion 
That  follows  me  faithfully,  steady,  and  true ; 
Their  force,  when  I  falter,  I  safely  may  rally  on, 

Knowing  their  stoutness  will  carry  me  through : 
Some  fifteen  hundred  in  order  impartial, 

So  ranged  that  they  tell  what  they  mean  by  their 
looks. 
Of  all  the  armies  the  world  can  marshal 

There  are  no  better  soldiers  than  well-tried  books. 

Dumb  in  their  ranks  on  the  shelves  imprisoned, 

They  never  retreat.     Give  the  word,   and  they  '11 
fire! 
A  few  with  scarlet  and  gold  are  bedizened, 

But  many  muster  in  rough  attire  ; 
And  some,  with  service  and  scars  grown  wizened, 

Seem  hardly  the  mates  for  their  fellows  in  youth  ; 
Yet  they,  and  the  troops  armed  only  with  quiz  and 

Light  laughter,  all  battle  alike  for  the  truth. 

Here  are  those  who  gave  motive  to  sock  and  to  bus- 
kin ; 
With  critics,  historians,  poets  galore ; 


92  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

A  cheaply  uniformed  set  of  Ruskin, 

Which  Ruskin  would  hate  from  his  heart 's  very 
core  ; 
Moliere  ('99),  an  old  calf -bound  edition, 

"  De  Pierre  Didot  Vaine,  et  de  Firmin  Didot" 
Which,  meek  and  demure,  with  a  sort  of  contrition, 

Is  masking  its  gun-lights,  with  fun  all  aglow  ; 

And  Smollett  and  Fielding,  as  veterans  battered  — 

Cloth  stripped  from  their  backs,  and  their  sides 
out  of  joint, 
Their  pictures  of  life  all  naked  and  tattered 

Being  thus  applied  to  themselves  with  a  point ; 
And  six  or  eight  books  that  I  wrote  myself, 

To  look  at  which,  even,  I  'm  half  afraid  ; 
They  brought  me  more  labor  and  pleasure  than  pelf, 

And  are  clamoring  still  because  they  're  not  paid. 

But  these  raw  levies  remain  still  faithful, 

Because  they  know  that  volumes  old 
Stand  by  me,  although  their  eyes  dim  and  wraithful 

Remind  me  they  seldom  at  profit  were  sold. 
So  I  say,  be  they  splendid  or  tatterdemalion, 

If  only  you  know  what  they  mean  by  their  looks, 
You  will  never  find  a  better  battalion 

Of  soldiers  to  serve  you  than  well-tried  books. 


ON  FLY-LEAF  OF  A   BOOK  OF  OLD  PLAYS.     93 


ON  THE  FLY-LEAF  OF  A  BOOK  OF  OLD  PLAYS. 

Walter  Learned.  Written  for  the  present  collection. 

T  Cato's-Head  in  Russell  Street 


A1 


These  leaves  she  sat  a-stitching ; 
I  fancy  she  was  trim  and  neat, 
Blue-eyed  and  quite  bewitching. 

Before  her,  in  the  street  below, 
All  powder,  ruffs,  and  laces, 

There  strutted  idle  London  beaux 
To  ogle  pretty  faces ; 

While,  filling  many  a  Sedan  chair 
With  hoop  and  monstrous  feather, 

In  patch  and  powder  London's  fair 
Went  trooping  past  together. 

Swift,  Addison,  and  Pope,  mayhap 
They  sauntered  slowly  past  her, 
Or  printer 's  boy,  with  gown  and  cap 
For  Steele,  went  trotting  faster. 

For  beau  nor  wit  had  she  a  look, 

Nor  lord  nor  lady  minding  ; 
She  bent  her  head  above  this  book, 

Attentive  to  her  binding. 


94  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

And  one  stray  thread  of  golden  hair, 
Caught  on  her  nimble  fingers, 

Was  stitched  within  this  volume,  where 
Until  to-day  it  lingers. 

Past  and  forgotten,  beaux  and  fair ; 

Wigs,  powder,  all  out-dated  ; 
A  queer  antique,  the  Sedan  chair  ; 

Pope,  stiff  and  antiquated. 

Yet  as  I  turn  these  odd  old  plays, 
This  single  stray  lock  finding, 

I  'm  back  in  those  forgotten  days 
And  watch  her  at  her  binding. 


TOO  MANY  BOOKS,  95 


TOO  MANY  BOOKS. 

Robert  Leighton.  From  'Reuben^  and  Other  Poems.''    1875. 

I  WOULD  that  we  were  only  readers  now, 
And  wrote  no  more,  or  in  rare  heats  of  soul 
Sweated  out  thoughts  when  the  o'er-burden'd  brow 
Was  powerless  to  control. 

Then  would  all  future  books  be  small  and  few, 
And,  freed  of  dross,  the  soul's  refined  gold ; 
So  should  we  have  a  chance  to  read  the  new, 
Yet  not  forego  the  old. 

But  as  it  is,  Lord  help  us,  in  this  flood 

Of  daily  papers,  books,  and  magazines  ! 
We  scramble  blind  as  reptiles  in  the  mud, 
And  know  not  what  it  means. 

Is  it  the  myriad  spawn  of  vagrant  tides, 

Whose   growth  would    overwhelm  both   sea  and 
shore, 
Yet  often  necessary  loss,  provides 
Sufficient  and  no  more  ? 

Is  it  the  broadcast  sowing  of  the  seeds, 

And  from  the  stones,  the  thorns  and  fertile  soil, 


96  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Only  enough  to  serve  the  world's  great  needs 
Rewards  the  sower's  toil  ? 

Is  it  all  needed  for  the  varied  mind  ? 

Gives  not  the  teeming  press  a  book  too  much- 
Not  one,  but  in  its  dense  neglect  shall  find 
Some  needful  heart  to  touch  ? 

Ah,  who  can  say  that  even  this  blade  of  grass 

No  mission  has  —  superfluous  as  it  looks  ? 
Then  wherefore  feel  oppressed  and  cry,  Alas, 
There  are  too  many  books  ! 


FROM  A   FL  Y-LEAF.  97 


FROM    THE    FLY-LEAF    OF  THE    ROWFANT 
MONTAIGNE   (FLORIO,   1603). 

Frederick  Locker.  Written  for  the  present  collection, 

OF  yore,  when  books  were  few  and  fine, 
Will  Shakspere  cut  these  leaves  of  mine, 
But  when  he  passed  I  went  astray 
Till  bought  by  Pope,  a  gift  for  Gay. 
Then,  later  on,  betwixt  my  pages 
A  nose  was  poked  —  the  Bolt-Court  Sage's. 

But  though  the  Fame  began  with  Rawleigh, 
And  had  not  dwindled  with  Macaulay, 
Though  still  I  tincture  many  tomes 
Like  Lowell's  pointed  sense,  and  Holmes', 
For  me  the  halcyon  days  have  past  — 
I  'm  here,  and  with  a  dunce  at  last. 


98  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


MY   BOOKS. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow.  Written  in  December,  1881. 

SADLY  as  some  old  mediaeval  knight 
Gazed  at  the  arms  he  could  no  longer  wield, 
The  sword  two-handed  and  the  shining  shield 
Suspended  in  the  hall,  and  full  in  sight, 

While  secret  longings  for  the  lost  delight 
Of  tourney  or  adventure  in  the  field 
Came  over  him,  and  tears  but  half  concealed 
Trembled  and  fell  upon  his  beard  of  white, 

So  I  behold  these  books  upon  their  shelf, 
My  ornaments  and  arms  of  other  days ; 
Not  wholly  useless,  though  no  longer  used, 

For  they  remind  me  of  my  other  self, 

Younger  and  stronger,  and  the  pleasant  ways, 
In  which  I  walked,  now  clouded  and  confused. 


THE  SOULS  OF  BOOKS.  99 


THE  SOULS  OF  BOOKS. 

Edward  Bulwer,  Lord  Lytton.  From  ' Earlier  Poems? 

I. 

SIT  here  and  muse  !  —  it  is  an  antique  room  — 
High-roofd,   with   casements,    through   whose 
purple  pane 
Unwilling  Daylight  steals  amidst  the  gloom, 
Shy  as  a  fearful  stranger. 

There  They  reign 
(In  loftier  pomp  than  waking  life  had  known), 
The  Kings  of  Thought !  — not  crown'd  until  the  grave. 
When  Agamemnon  sinks  into  the  tomb, 
The  beggar  Homer  mounts  the  Monarch's  throne  ! 
Ye  ever-living  and  imperial  Souls, 
Who  rule  us  from  the  page  in  which  ye  breathe, 
All  that  divide  us  from  the  clod  ye  gave  !  — 
Law  —  Order  —  Love  —  Intelligence  —  the  Sense 
Of  Beauty  —  Music  and  the  Minstrel's  wreath  !  — 
What  were  our  wanderings  if  without  your  goals  ? 
As  air  and  light,  the  glory  ye  dispense 
Becomes  our  being  —  who  of  us  can  tell 
What  he  had  been,  had  Cadmus  never  taught 
The  art  that  fixes  into  form  the  thought  — 
Had  Plato  never  spoken  from  his  cell, 


ioo  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Or  his  high  harp  blind  Homer  never  strung  ? 
Kinder  all  earth  hath  grown  since  genial  Shakspere 
sung ! 

ii. 

Hark  !  while  we  muse,  without  the  walls  is  heard 

The  various  murmur  of  the  laboring  crowd, 

How  still,  within  those  archive-cells  interr'd, 

The  Calm  Ones  reign  !  —  and  yet  they  rouse  the  loud 

Passions  and  tumults  of  the  circling  world  ! 

From  them,  how  many  a  youthful  Tully  caught 

The  zest  and  ardor  of  the  eager  Bar ; 

From  them,  how  many  a  young  Ambition  sought 

Gay  meteors  glancing  o'er  the  sands  afar  — 

By  them  each  restless  wing  has  been  unfurPd, 

And  their  ghosts  urge  each  rival's  rushing  car  ! 

They  made  yon  Preacher  zealous  for  the  truth  ; 

They  made  yon  Poet  wistful  for  the  star ; 

Gave  Age  its  pastime  —  fired  the  cheek  of  Youth  — 

The  unseen  sires  of  all  our  beings  are,  — 

in. 

And  now  so  still !    This,  Cicero,  is  thy  heart ; 
I  hear  it  beating  through  each  purple  line. 
This  is  thyself,  Anacreon  —  yet,  thou  art 
Wreath'd,  as  in  Athens,  with  the  Cnidian  vine. 

I  ope  thy  pages,  Milton,  and,  behold, 

Thy  spirit  meets  me  in  the  haunted  ground  !  — 
Sublime  and  eloquent,  as  while,  of  old, 

II  It  flamed  and  sparkled  in  its  crystal  bound  ; "  * 

*  ■  Comus.' 


THE  SOULS  OF  BOOKS.  101 

These  are  yourselves  —  your  life  of  life  !     The  Wise, 
(Minstrel  or  Sage)  out  of  their  books  are  clay  \ 
But  in  their  books,  as  from  their  graves,  they  rise, 
Angels  —  that,  side  by  side,  upon  our  way, 
Walk  with  and  warn  us  ! 

Hark  !  the  world  so  loud, 
And  they,  the  movers  of  the  world,  so  still ! 

What  gives  this  beauty  to  the  grave  ?  the  shroud 

Scarce  wraps  the  Poet,  than  at  once  there  cease 

Envy  and  Hate !    "  Nine  cities  claim  him  dead, 

Through  which  the  living  Homer  begg'd  his  bread  ! " 

And  what  the  charm  that  can  such  health  distil 

From  wither'd  leaves  —  oft  poisons  in  their  bloom  ? 

We  call  some  books  immoral !    Do  they  live  ? 

If  so,  believe  me,  Time  hath  made  them  pure. 

In  Books,  the  veriest  wicked  rest  in  peace  — 

God  wills  that  nothing  evil  shall  endure ; 

The  grosser  parts  fly  off  and  leave  the  whole, 

As  the  dust  leaves  the  disembodied  soul ! 

Come  from  thy  niche,  Lucretius  !    Thou  didst  give 

Man  the  black  creed  of  Nothing  in  the  tomb  ! 

Well,  when  we  read  thee,  does  the  dogma  taint  ? 

No ;  with  a  listless  eye  we  pass  it  o'er, 

And  linger  only  on  the  hues  that  paint 

The  Poet's  spirit  lovelier  than  his  lore. 

None  learn  from  thee  to  cavil  with  their  God ; 

None  commune  with  thy  genius  to  depart 

Without  a  loftier  instinct  of  the  heart. 

Thou  mak'st  no  Atheist  —  thou  but  mak'st  the  mind 


102  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Richer  in  gifts  which  Atheists  best  confute  — 
Fancy  and  Thought  !    T  is  these  that  from  the  sod 
Lift  us !  The  life  which  soars  above  the  brute 
Ever  and  mightiest,  breathes  from  a  great  Poet's 

lute! 
Lo  !  that  grim  Merriment  of  Hatred ;  *  — born 
Of  him,  —  the  Master-Mocker  of  Mankind, 
Beside  the  grin  of  whose  malignant  spleen, 
Voltaire's  gay  sarcasm  seems  a  smile  serene,  — 
Do  we  not  place  it  in  our  children's  hands, 
Leading    young     Hope    through     Lemuel's     fabled 

lands  ?  — 
God's  and  man's  libel  in  that  foul  yahoo  !  — 
Well,  and  what  mischief  can  the  libel  do  ? 
O  impotence  of  Genius  to  belie 
Its  glorious  task  —  its  mission  from  the  sky  ! 
Swift  wrote  this  book  to  wreak  a  ribald  scorn 
On   aught  the   Man  should   love  or  Priest   should 

mourn  — 
And  lo !  the  book,  from  all  its  ends  beguil'd, 
A  harmless  wonder  to  some  happy  child  ! 

IV. 

All  books  grow  homilies  by  time  ;  they  are 
Temples,  at  once,  and  Landmarks.     In  them,  we 
Who  but  for  them,  upon  that  inch  of  ground 
We  call  "The  Present,"  from  the  cell  could  see 
No  daylight  trembling  on  the  dungeon  bar ; 
Turn,  as  we  list,  the  globe's  great  axle  round, 

*  \  Gulliver's  Travels.' 


THE  SOULS  OF  BOOKS.  103 

And  feel  the  Near  less  household  than  the  Far  ! 
Traverse  all  space,  and  number  every  star, 
There  is  no  Past,  so  long  as  Books  shall  live  ! 
A  disinterr'd  Pompeii  wakes  again 
For  him  who  seeks  yon  well ;  lost  cities  give 
Up  their  untarnish'd  wonders,  and  the  reign 
Of  Jove  revives  and  Saturn  :  —  at  our  will 
Rise  dome  and  tower  on  Delphi's  sacred  hill  \ 
Bloom  Cimon's  trees  in  Academe  ;  *  —  along 
Leucadia's  headland,  sighs  the  Lesbian's  song ; 
With  ^Egypt's  Queen  once  more  we  sail  the  Nile, 
And  learn  how  worlds  are  barter'd  for  a  smile  :  — 
Rise  up,  ye  walls,  with  gardens  blooming  o'er, 
Ope  but  that  page  —  lo,  Babylon  once  more  ! 

v. 
Ye  make  the  Past  our  heritage  and  home  : 
And  is  this  all  ?     No ;  by  each  prophet-sage  — 
No  ;  by  the  herald  souls  that  Greece  and  Rome 
Sent  forth,  like  hymns,  to  greet  the  Morning  Star 
That  rose  on  Bethlehem  —  by  thy  golden  page, 
Melodious  Plato  —  by  thy  solemn  dreams, 
World-wearied  Tully  !  —  and,  above  ye  all, 
By  This,  the  Everlasting  Monument 
Of  God  to  mortals,  on  whose  front  the  beams 
Flash  glory-breathing  day  —  our  lights  ye  are 
To  the  dark  Bourne  beyond  ;  in  you  are  sent 
The  types  of  Truths  whose  life  is  The  To-come  ; 
In  you  soars  up  the  Adam  from  the  fall ; 
*  Plut.  in  « Vit.  Cim.' 


104  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

In  you  the  Future  as  the  Past  is  given  — 
Ev'n  in  our  death  ye  bid  us  hail  our  birth ;  — 
Unfold  these  pages,  and  behold  the  Heaven, 
Without  one  gravestone  left  upon  the  Earth  ? 


DE  LIB R IS.  105 


DE  LIBRIS. 

Cosmo  Monkhousk.  Written  for  the  present  collection. 

TRUE — there  are  books  and  books.    There's 
Gray, 
For  instance,  and  there  's  Bacon  \ 
There  's  Longfellow,  and  Monstrelet, 

And  also  Colton's  '  Lacon,' 
With  *  Laws  of  Whist '  and  those  of  Libel, 
And  Euclid,  and  the  Mormon  Bible. 

And  some  are  dear  as  friends,  and  some 

We  keep  because  we  need  them  ; 
And  some  we  ward  from  worm  and  thumb, 

And  love  too  well  to  read  them. 
My  own  are  poor,  and  mostly  new, 
But  I  Ve  an  Elzevir  or  two. 

That  as  a  gift  is  prized,  the  next 

For  trouble  in  the  finding ; 
This  Aldine  for  its  early  text, 

That  Plantin  for  the  binding  5 
This  sorry  Herrick  hides  a  flower, 
The  record  of  one  perfect  hour. 


106  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

But  whether  it  be  worth  or  looks 

We  gently  love  or  strongly, 
Such  virtue  doth  reside  in  books 

We  scarce  can  love  them  wrongly ; 
To  sages  an  eternal  school, 
A  hobby  (harmless)  to  the  fool. 

Nor  altogether  fool  is  he 

Who  orders,  free  from  doubt, 
Those  books  which  "  no  good  library 

Should  ever  be  without," 
And  blandly  locks  the  well-glazed  door 
On  tomes  that  issue  never  more. 

Less  may  we  scorn  his  cases  grand, 

Where  safely,  surely  linger 
Fair  virgin  fields  of  type,  unscanned 

And  innocent  of  finger. 
There  rest,  preserved  from  dust  accurst, 
The  first  editions  —  and  the  worst. 

And  least  of  all  should  we  that  write 

With  easy  jest  deride  them, 
Who  hope  to  leave  when  "lost  to  sight  " 

The  best  of  us  inside  them, 
Dear  shrines !  where  many  a  scribbler's  name 
Has  lasted  —  longer  than  his  fame. 


EX  LIBRIS.  107 


EX  LIBRIS. 

Arthur  J.  Munby.  Written  for  the  present  collection. 

MAN  that  is  born  of  woman  finds  a  charm 
In  that  which  he  is  born  of.     She  it  is 
Who  moulds  him  with  a  frown  or  with  a  kiss 
To  good  or  ill,  to  welfare  or  to  harm  : 
But,  when  he  has  attain'd  her  soft  round  arm 
And  drawn  it  through  his  own,  and  made  her  his, 
He  through  her  eyes  beholds  a  wider  bliss, 
As  sweet  as  that  she  gives  him,  and  as  warm. 

What  bliss  ?    We  dare  not  name  it :  her  fond  looks 
Are  jealous  too;  she  hardly  understands, 
£irt  by  her  children's  laughter  or  their  cries, 
The  stately  smooth  companionship  of  books : 
And  yet  to  her  we  owe  it,  to  her  hands 
And  to  her  heart,  that  books  can  make  us  wise. 


io8  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


ON  AN  INSCRIPTION. 

"  Edward  Danenhill :  Book  given  him 

by  Joseph  IVise,  April  ye  27th,  1741" 

Arthur  J.  Munby.  was  the  inscription  in  a  copy  of  Ca- 

rew's  '  Poems '  (/6j/).     Written  for 
the  present  collection. 

A  MAN  unknown  this  volume  gave, 
So  long  since,  to  his  unknown  friend, 
Ages  ago,  their  lives  had  end, 
And  each  in  some  obscurest  grave 
Lies  mixt  with  earth  :  none  now  would  care 
To  ask  or  who  or  what  they  were. 

But,  though  these  two  are  underground, 
Their  book  is  here,  all  safe  and  sound  ; 
And  he  who  wrote  it  (yea,  and  more 
Than  a  whole  hundred  years  before) 
He,  the  trim  courtier,  old  Carew, 
And  all  the  loves  he  feign'd  or  knew, 
Have  won  from  Aphrodite's  eye 
Some  show  of  immortality. 

'T  is  ever  thus  ;  by  Nature's  will 
The  gift  outlasts  the  giver  still ; 
And  Love  itself  lives  not  so  long 
As  doth  a  lover's  feeblest  song. 

But  doubly  hard  is  that  man's  case, 
For  whom  and  for  his  earnest  rhymes 
Neither  his  own  nor  after-times 


s 

ON  AN  INSCRIPTION  1 09 

Have  any  work,  have  any  place  : 
Who  through  a  hundred  years  shall  find 
No  echoing  voice,  no  answering  mind ; 
And,  when  this  tann'd  and  tawny  page 
Has  one  more  century  of  age, 
And  others  buy  the  book  anew, 
Because  they  care  for  old  Carew, 
Not  one  who  reads  shall  care  or  know 
What  name  was  his,  who  owns  it  now  : 
But  all  he  wrote  and  all  he  did 
Shall  be  in  such  oblivion  hid 
As  hides  the  blurr'd  and  broken  stones 
That  cover  his  forgotten  bones. 


HO  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


TO  MY  BOOKS. 

Caroline  Norton.  From  the  'Dream  and  other  Poems.1 

1840. 

SILENT  companions  of  the  lonely  hour, 
Friends,  who  can  never  alter  or  forsake, 
Who  for  inconstant  roving  have  no  power, 
And  all  neglect,  perforce,  must  calmly  take, 
Let  me  return  to  you  ;  this  turmoil  ending 
Which  worldly  cares  have  in  my  spirit  wrought, 
And,  o'er  your  old  familiar  pages  bending, 
Refresh  my  mind  with  many  a  tranquil  thought ; 
Till,  haply  meeting  there,  from  time  to  time, 
Fancies,  the  audible  echo  of  my  own, 
'T  will  be  like  hearing  in  a  foreign  clime 
My  native  language  spoke  in  friendly  tone, 
And  with  a  sort  of  welcome  I  shall  dwell 
On  these,  my  unripe  musings,  told  so  well. 


*  DESUL  TOR  Y  READING:  1 1 1 


<  DESULTORY  READING.' 

pup  Front  the  London  'Spectator '  of  Jan- 

r*  "*  r'  uary  16, 1886. 

O  FINEST  essence  of  delicious  rest ! 
To  bid  for  some  short  space  the  busy  mill 

Of  anxious,  ever-grinding  thought  be  still  ; 
And  let  the  weary  brain  and  throbbing  breast 
Be  by  another's  cooling  hand  caressed. 

This  volume  in  my  hand,  I  hold  a  charm 

Which  lifts  me  out  of  reach  of  wrong  or  harm. 
I  sail  away  from  trouble  ;  and  most  blessed 
Of  every  blessing,  can  myself  forget  : 

Can  rise  above  the  instance  low  and  poor 
Into  the  mighty  law  that  governs  yet. 

This  hinged  cover,  like  a  well  hung  door, 
Shuts  out  the  noises  of  the  jangling  day, 
These  fair  leaves  fan  unwelcome  thoughts  away. 


BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


THE  BOOKWORM. 

THOMAS  PAKNELL.  *>%***  g£    ^    *>**    * 

COME  hither,  boy,  we  li  hunt  to-day 
The  bookworm,  ravening  beast  of  prey, 
Produc'd  by  parent  Earth,  at  odds, 
As  fame  reports  it,  with  the  gods. 
Him  frantic  hunger  wildly  drives 
Against  a  thousand  authors'  lives  : 
Through  all  the  fields  of  wit  he  flies ; 
Dreadful  his  head  with  clustering  eyes, 
With  horns  without,  and  tusks  within, 
And  scales  to  serve  him  for  a  skin. 
Observe  him  nearly,  lest  he  climb 
To  wound  the  bards  of  ancient  time, 
Or  down  the  vale  of  fancy  go 
To  tear  some  modern  wretch  below. 
On  every  corner  fix  thine  eye, 
Or  ten  to  one  he  slips  thee  by. 

See  where  his  teeth  a  passage  eat : 
We  '11  rouse  him  from  his  deep  retreat. 
But  who  the  shelter  's  forc'd  to  give  ? 
*T  is  sacred  Virgil,  as  I  live  ! 
From  leaf  to  leaf,  from  song  to  song 
He  draws  the  tadpole  form  along, 


THE  BOOKWORM.  1 13 

He  mounts  the  gilded  edge  before, 
He  's  up,  he  scuds  the  cover  o'er, 
He  turns,  he  doubles,  there  he  past, 
And  here  we  have  him,  caught  at  last. 

Insatiate  brute,  whose  teeth  abuse 
The  sweetest  servants  of  the  Muse  — 
Nay,  never  offer  to  deny, 
I  took  thee  in  the  fact  to  fly. 
His  rose  nipt  in  every  page, 
My  poor  Anacreon  mourns  thy  rage ; 
By  thee  my  Ovid  wounded  lies  ; 
By  thee  my  Lesbia's  Sparrow  dies  ; 
Thy  rabid  teeth  have  half  destroy'd 
The  work  of  love  in  Biddy  Floyd ; 
They  rent  Belinda's  locks  away, 
And  spoil'd  the  Blouzelind  of  Gay. 
For  all,  for  every  single  deed, 
Relentless  justice  bids  thee  bleed : 
Then  fall  a  victim  to  the  Nine 
Myself  the  priest,  my  desk  the  shrine. 

Bring  Homer,  Virgil,  Tasso  near, 
To  pile  a  sacred  altar  here  : 
Hold,  boy,  thy  hand  outruns  thy  wit, 
You  reach'd  the  plays  that  Dennis  writ  \ 
You  reach'd  me  Philips'  rustic  strain  ; 
Pray  take  your  mortal  bards  again. 

Come,  bind  the  victim,  —  there  he  lies, 
And  here  between  his  numerous  eyes 


H4  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

This  venerable  dust  I  lay 

From  manuscripts  just  swept  away. 

The  goblet  in  my  hand  I  take, 

For  the  libation 's  yet  to  make  : 

A  health  to  poets  !  all  their  days 

May  they  have  bread,  as  well  as  praise  ; 

Sense  may  they  seek,  and  less  engage 

In  papers  fuTd  with  party  rage. 

But  if  their  riches  spoil  their  vein, 

Ye  Muses,  make  them  poor  again. 

Now  bring  the  weapon,  yonder  blade 
With  which  my  tuneful  pens  are  made. 
I  strike  the  scales  that  arm  thee  round, 
And  twice  and  thrice  I  print  the  wound ; 
The  sacred  altar  floats  with  red, 
And  now  he  dies,  and  now  he 's  dead. 

How  like  the  son  of  Jove  I  stand, 
This  Hydra  stretch'd  beneath  the  hand ! 
Lay  bare  the  monster's  entrails  here, 
And  see  what  dangers  threat  the  year : 
Ye  gods  !  what  sonnet  on  a  wench  ! 
What  lean  translations  out  of  French  ! 
'T  is  plain,  this  lobe  is  so  unsound, 
S  —  prints,  before  the  months  go  round. 

But  hold,  before  I  close  the  scene 
The  sacred  altar  should  be  clean. 
O  had  I  Shadwell  's  second  bays, 
Or,  Tate,  thy  pert  and  humble  lays  ! 


THE  BOOKWORM.  115 

(Ye  pair,  forgive  me,  when  I  vow 
I  never  miss'd  your  works  till  now,) 
I  'd  tear  the  leaves  to  wipe  the  shrine, 
That  only  way  you  please  the  Nine  : 
But  since  I  chance  to  want  these  two, 
I  '11  make  the  songs  of  Durfey  do. 

Rent  from  the  corps,  on  yonder  pin, 
I  hang  the  scales  that  brac'd  it  in ; 
I  hang  my  studious  morning  gown, 
And  write  my  own  inscription  down. 

"  This  trophy  from  the  Python  won, 
This  robe,  in  which  the  deed  was  done, 
These,  Parnell,  glorying  in  the  feat 
Hung  on  these  shelves,  the  Muses  seat. 
Here  Ignorance  and  Hunger  found 
Large  realms  of  wit  to  ravage  round ; 
Here  Ignorance  and  Hunger  fell 
Two  foes  in  one  I  sent  to  hell. 
Ye  poets  who  my  labors  see 
Come  share  the  triumph  all  with  me ! 
Ye  critics,  born  to  vex  the  Muse, 
Go  mourn  the  grand  ally  you  lose !  " 


Il6  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS. 

Samuel  Minturn  Peck.  From  '  Cap  and  Bells?    1886. 

AMONG  my  books  —  what  rest  is  there 
From  wasting  woes  !  what  balm  for  care ! 
If  ills  appall  or  clouds  hang  low, 
And  drooping,  dim  the  fleeting  show, 
I  revel  still  in  visions  rare. 
At  will  I  breathe  the  classic  air, 
The  wanderings  of  Ulysses  share ; 
Or  see  the  plume  of  Bayard  flow 
Among  my  books. 

Whatever  face  the  world  may  wear  — 
If  Lillian  has  no  smile  to  spare, 

For  others  let  her  beauty  blow, 

Such  favors  I  can  well  forego ; 
Perchance  forget  the  frowning  fair 
Among  my  books. 


A   RUINED  LIBRARY,  1 17 


A  RUINED  LIBRARY. 

Walter  Herries  Pollock.  Written  for  the  present  collection. 

IMPERIOUS  Caesar  dead  and  turn'd  to  clay 
Might  stop  a  hole  to  keep  the  wind  away." 
Here  the  live  thought  of  buried  Caesar's  brain 
Has  served  a  lazy  slut  to  lay  the  train 
That  lights  a  dunce's  fire.     Here  Homer 's  seen 
All  torn  or  crumpled  in  the  pettish  spleen 
Of  some  spoilt  urchin.     Here  a  leaf  from  Glanvil 
Is  reft  to  mark  a  place  in  *  On  the  Anvil.' 
Here,  too,  a  heavy-blotted  Shakspere's  page 
Holds  up  an  inky  mirror  to  the  age ; 
Here  looking  round  you  're  but  too  sure  to  see  a 
Heart-breaking  wreck  from  the  *  Via  Jacobaea ;  \ 
Here  some  rare  pamphlet,  long  a-missing,  lurks 
In  an  odd  volume  of  '  Lord  Bacon's  Works  \ ' 
Here  may  you  find  a  Stillingfleet  or  Blair 
Usurp  the  binding  of  a  lost  Voltaire ; 
And  here  a  tattered  Boyle  doth  gape  ungently 
Upon  a  damp-disfigured  '  Life  of  Bentley.' 
Here  half  a  Rabelais  jostles  for  position 
The  quarter  of  a  '  Spanish  Inquisition  ; ' 
Here  Young's  *  Night  Thoughts  '  lie  mixed  with 
Swinburne's  '  Ballads ' 


n8  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

'Mid  scraps  of  works  on  Poisons  and  on  Salads  ; 
And  here  a  rent  and  gilt-edged  Sterne  doth  lack 

ray 
Of  sun  that  falls  upon  a  bulging  Thackeray  ; 
Here  —  but  the  tale  's  too  sad  at  length  to  tell 
How  a  book-heaven  's  been  turned  to  a  book-hell. 


MY  BOOKS.  119 


MY  BOOKS. 

Bryan  Waller  Procter.  From  lAn  A utobiographical  Frag- 

(Barry  Cornwall.)  ment?   1877. 

ALL  round  the  room  my  silent  servants  wait,  — 
My  friends  in  every  season,  bright  and  dim  ; 
Angels  and  seraphim 

Come  down  and  murmur  to  me,  sweet  and  low, 
And  spirits  of  the  skies  all  come  and  go 
Early  and  late  ; 

All  from  the  old  world's  divine  and  distant  date, 
From  the  sublimer  few, 
Down  to  the  poet  who  but  yester-eve 
Sang  sweet  and  made  us  grieve, 
All  come,  assembling  here  in  order  due. 
And  here  I  dwell  with  Poesy,  my  mate, 
With  Erato  and  all  her  vernal  sighs, 
Great  Clio  with  her  victories  elate, 
Or  pale  Urania's  deep  and  starry  eyes. 

0  friends,  whom  chance  and  change  can  never  harm, 
Whom  Death  the  tyrant  cannot  doom  to  die, 
Within  whose  folding  soft  eternal  charm 

1  love  to  He, 

And  meditate  upon  your  verse  that  flows, 
And  fertilizes  whereso'er  it  goes, 
Whether 


BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


TO  MY  BOOKS  ON  PARTING  WITH  TREM. 

The  sale  of  the  famous  Roscoe  library , 
wt        . ..  t>  ~„~~  made  necessary  by  reverses  in  business, 

William  Roscoe.  Uok  place  in  %  ugmt  and  Septemberf 

1816. 

AS  one  who,  destined  from  his  friends  to  part, 
Regrets  his  loss,  yet  hopes  again  erewhile, 
To  share  their  converse  and  enjoy  their  smile, 
And  tempers  as  he  may  affliction's  dart,  — 
Thus,  loved  associates !  chiefs  of  elder  Art ! 
Teachers  of  wisdom !  who  could  once  beguile 
My  tedious  hours,  and  lighten  every  toil, 
I  now  resign  you ;  nor  with  fainting  heart ; 
For  pass  a  few  short  years,  or  days,  or  hours. 
And  happier  seasons  may  their  dawn  unfold, 
And  all  your  sacred  fellowship  restore  ; 
When,  freed  from  earth,  unlimited  its  powers, 
Mind  shall  with  mind  direct  communion  hold, 
And  kindred  spirits  meet  to  part  no  more. 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS.  12 1 


AMONG  MY  BOOKS. 

Francis  St.  Clair-Erskine,  jsv™»  *  c^^/c »    r*** 

Earl  of  Rosslyn.  **"*  •»*«'*■     l883' 

ALONE,  'midst  living  works  of  mighty  dead, 
Poets  and  Scholars  versed  in  history's  lore, 
With  thoughts  that  reached  beyond  them  and  before, 
I  dream,  and  leave  their  glorious  works  unread ; 
Their  greatness  numbs  me  both  in  heart  and  head. 
I  cannot  weep  with  Petrarch,  and  still  more 
I  fail  when  I  would  delve  the  depths  of  yore, 
And  learn  old  Truths  of  modern  lies  instead  ; 
The  shelves  frown  on  me  blackly,  with  a  life 
That  ne'er  can  die,  and  helpless  to  begin, 
I  can  but  own  my  weakness,  and  deplore 
This  waste,  this  barren  brain,  ah  !  once  so  rife 
With  hope  and  fancy.     Pardon  all  my  sin, 
Great  Ghosts  that  wander  on  the  Eternal  Shore. 


122  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


THE  LIBRARY. 

One  of  the  excerpts  from  *  Occasional 
John  Godfrey  Saxe.  Poems  '  included   in  his  '  Complete 

Poems."* 

HERE,  e'en  the  sturdy  democrat  may  find, 
Nor  scorn  their  rank,  the  nobles  of  the  mind  5 
While  kings  may  learn,  nor  blush  at  being  shown, 
How  Learning's  patents  abrogate  their  own. 
A  goodly  company  and  fair  to  see  ; 
Royal  plebeians ;  earls  of  low  degree  ; 
Beggars  whose  wealth  enriches  every  clime  ; 
Princes  who  scarce  can  boast  a  mental  dime ; 
Crowd  here  together  like  the  quaint  array 
Of  jostling  neighbors  on  a  market  day. 
Homer  and  Milton,  —  can  we  call  them  blind  ?  — 
Of  godlike  sight,  the  vision  of  the  mind  ; 
Shakspere,  who  calmly  looked  creation  through, 
"  Exhausted  worlds,  and  then  imagined  new  ;  " 
Plato  the  sage,  so  thoughtful  and  serene, 
He  seems  a  prophet  by  his  heavenly  mien ; 
Shrewd  Socrates,  whose  philosophic  power 
Xantippe  proved  in  many  a  trying  hour ; 
And  Aristophanes,  whose  humor  run 
In  vain  endeavor  to  be-"  cloud  "  the  sun  ; 
Majestic  ^Eschylus,  whose  glowing  page 
Holds  half  the  grandeur  of  the  Athenian  stage ; 


THE  LIBRARY.  123 

Pindar,  whose  odes,  replete  with  heavenly  fire, 
Proclaim  the  master  of  the  Grecian  lyre ; 
Anacreon,  famed  for  many  a  luscious  line 
Devote  to  Venus  and  the  god  of  wine. 

I  love  vast  libraries  ;  yet  there  is  a  doubt 
If  one  be  better  with  them  or  without,  — 
Unless  he  use  them  wisely,  and  indeed, 
Knows  the  high  art  of  what  and  how  to  read, 
At  learning's  fountain  it  is  sweet  to  drink, 
But  't  is  a  nobler  privilege  to  think ; 
And  oft  from  books  apart,  the  thirsting  mind 
May  make  the  nectar  which  it  cannot  find, 
'T  is  well  to  borrow  from  the  good  and  great ; 
'T  is  wise  to  learn ;  't  is  godlike  to  create  ! 


124  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


IN  THE  LIBRARY. 

Clinton  Scollard.  f™&  Wiih  ^ed  and  Lyre: 

FROM  the  oriels  one  by  one, 
Slowly  fades  the  setting  sun; 
On  the  marge  of  afternoon 
Stands  the  new-born  crescent  moon. 
In  the  twilight's  crimson  glow 
Dim  the  quiet  alcoves  grow. 
Drowsy-lidded  Silence  smiles 
On  the  long  deserted  aisles ; 
Out  of  every  shadowy  nook 
Spirit  faces  seem  to  look. 
Some  with  smiling  eyes,  and  some 
With  a  sad  entreaty  dumb  ; 
He  who  shepherded  his  sheep 
On  the  wild  Sicilian  steep, 
He  above  whose  grave  are  set 
Sprays  of  Roman  violet ; 
Poets,  sages  —  all  who  wrought 
In  the  crucible  of  thought. 
Day  by  day  as  seasons  glide 
On  the  great  eternal  tide, 
Noiselessly  they  gather  thus 
In  the  twilight  beauteous, 


IN  THE  LIBRARY.  125 

Hold  communion  each  with  each, 
Closer  than  our  earthly  speech, 
Till  within  the  east  are  born 
Premonitions  of  the  morn ! 


126  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


THE  BOOK-HUNTER. 

Frank  Dempster  Sherman.  ^nZJ^'^  Magazine' 

A  CUP  of  coffee,  eggs,  and  rolls 
Sustain  him  on  his  morning  strolls  : 
Unconscious  of  the  passers-by, 
He  trudges  on  with  downcast  eye  ; 
He  wears  a  queer  old  hat  and  coat, 
Suggestive  of  a  style  remote ; 
His  manner  is  preoccupied,  — 
A  shambling  gait,  from  side  to  side. 
For  him  the  sleek,  bright-windowed  shop 
Is  all  in  vain,  —  he  does  not  stop. 
His  thoughts  are  fixed  on  dusty  shelves 
Where  musty  volumes  hide  themselves,  — 
Rare  prints  of  poetry  and  prose, 
And  quaintly  lettered  folios,  — 
Perchance  a  parchment  manuscript, 
In  some  forgotten  corner  slipped, 
Or  monk-illumined  missal  bound 
In  vellum  with  brass  clasps  around ; 
These  are  the  pictured  things  that  throng 
His  mind  the  while  he  walks  along. 


THE  BOOK-HUNTER.  127 

A  dingy  street,  a  cellar  dim, 

With  book-lined  walls,  suffices  him. 

The  dust  is  white  upon  his  sleeves ; 

He  turns  the  yellow,  dog-eared  leaves 

With  just  the  same  religious  look 

That  priests  give  to  the  Holy  Book. 

He  does  not  heed  the  stifling  air 

If  so  he  find  a  treasure  there. 

He  knows  rare  books,  like  precious  wines, 

Are  hidden  where  the  sun  ne'er  shines ; 

For  him  delicious  flavors  dwell 

In  books  as  in  old  Muscatel ; 

He  finds  in  features  of  the  type 

A  clew  to  prove  the  grape  was  ripe. 

And  when  he  leaves  this  dismal  place, 

Behold,  a  smile  lights  up  his  face  ! 

Upon  his  cheeks  a  genial  glow,  — 

Within  his  hand  Boccaccio, 

A  first  edition  worn  with  age, 

"  Firenze  "  on  the  title-page. 


128  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


THE  LIBRARY. 

Robert  Southey.  Written  at  Keswick  in  1818. 

MY  days  among  the  Dead  are  past ; 
Around  me  I  behold, 
Where'er  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old ; 
My  never-failing  friends  are  they, 
With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal, 

And  seek  relief  in  woe ; 
And  while  I  understand  and  feel 

How  much  to  them  I  owe, 
My  cheeks  have  often  been  dedew'd 
With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead,  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years, 
Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn  ; 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 
And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 
Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead,  anon 
My  place  with  them  shall  be, 


THE  LIBRARY.  129 

And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 

Through  all  futurity ; 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 


130  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


PICTURE-BOOKS  IN  WINTER. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson.         From  lA  Child 's  Garden  of  Verses.1   i8Sj. 

SUMMER  fading,  winter  comes  — 
Frosty  mornings,  tingling  thumbs, 
Window  robins,  winter  rooks, 
And  the  picture  story-books. 

Water  now  is  turned  to  stone 
Nurse  and  I  can  walk  upon  \ 
Still  we  find  the  flowing  brooks 
And  the  picture  story-books. 

All  the  pretty  things  put  by, 

Wait  upon  the  children's  eye 

Sheep  and  shepherds,  trees  and  crooks, 

In  the  picture  story-books. 

We  may  see  how  all  things  are, 
Seas  and  cities,  near  and  far, 
And  the  flying  fairies'  looks, 
In  the  picture  story-books. 

How  am  I  to  sing  your  praise, 
Happy  chimney-corner  days, 
Sitting  safe  in  nursery  nooks, 
Reading  picture  story-books  ? 


COMPANIONS.  131 


COMPANIONS. 

A  French  writer  (whom  I  love  well)  speaks  of  three  kinds  of  companions : 
men,  women,  and  books.  Sir  John  Davys. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard.         From  the  ' Atlantic  Monthly?  June,  1877. 

WE  have  companions,  comrade  mine  : 
Jolly  good  fellows,  tried  and  true, 
Are  filling  their  cups  with  the  Rhenish  wine, 

And  pledging  each  other,  as  I  do  you. 
Never  a  man  in  all  the  land 

But  has,  in  his  hour  of  need,  a  friend, 
Who  stretches  to  him  a  helping  hand 

And  stands  by  him  to  the  bitter  end. 
If  not  before,  there  is  comfort  then, 
In  the  strong  companionship  of  men. 

But  better  than  that,  old  friend  of  mine, 

Is  the  love  of  woman,  the  life  of  life, 
Whether  in  maiden's  eyes  it  shine, 

Or  melts  in  the  tender  kiss  of  wife ; 
A  heart  contented  to  feel,  not  know, 

That  finds  in  the  other  its  sole  delight ; 
White  hands  that  are  loath  to  let  us  go, 

The  tenderness  that  is  more  than  might ! 
On  earth  below,  in  heaven  above, 
Is  there  anything  better  than  woman's  love  ? 


132  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

I  do  not  say  so,  companion  mine, 

For  what,  without  it,  would  I  be  here  ? 
It  lightens  my  troubles,  like  this  good  wine, 

And,  if  I  must  weep,  sheds  tear  for  tear ! 
But  books,  old  friends  that  are  always  new, 

Of  all  good  things  that  we  know  are  best ; 
They  never  forsake  us,  as  others  do, 

And  never  disturb  our  inward  rest. 
Here  is  truth  in  a  world  of  lies, 
And  all  that  in  man  is  great  and  wise ! 

Better  than  men  and  women,  friend, 

That  are  dust,  though  dear  in  our  joy  and  pain, 
Are  the  books  their  cunning  hands  have  penned, 

For  they  depart,  but  the  books  remain ; 
Through  these  they  speak  to  us  what  was  best 

In  the  loving  heart  and  the  noble  mind  : 
All  their  royal  souls  possessed 

Belongs  forever  to  all  mankind  ! 
When  others  fail  him,  the  wise  man  looks 
To  the  sure  companionship  of  books. 


THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE,  133 


THE  BOOK  OF  LIFE. 


A  Bibliographical  Melody,  printed  in 
Richard  Thomson.  1820  at  the  press  of  John  Johnson  as 

a  gift  to  the  members  of  the  Rox- 
burghe  Club. 

THAT  Life  is  a  Comedy  oft  hath  been  shown, 
By  all  who  Mortality's  changes  have  known  ; 
But  more  like  a  Volume  its  actions  appear, 
Where  each  Day  is  a  Page  and  each  Chapter  a  year. 
'T  is  a  Manuscript  Time  shall  full  surely  unfold, 
Though  with  Black- Letter  shaded,  or  shining  with 

gold; 
The  Initial,  like  Youth,  glitters  bright  on  its  Page, 
But  its  Text  is  as  dark  —  as  the  gloom  of  Old  Age. 
Then  Life's  Counsels  of  Wisdom  engrave  on  thy 

breast, 
And  deep  on  thine  Heart  be  her  lessons  imprest. 

Though  the  Title  stands  first  it  can  little  declare 
The  Contents  which  the  Pages  ensuing  shall  bear ; 
As  little  the  first  day  of  Life  can  explain    , 
The  succeeding  events  which  shall  glide  in  its  train, 
The  Book  follows  next,  and,  delighted,  we  trace 
An  Elzevir's  beauty,  a  Guttemberg's  grace ; 
Thus  on  pleasure  we  gaze  with  as  raptured  an  eye, 
Till,  cut  off  like  a  Volume  imperfect,  we  die ! 

Then  Life  's  Counsels  of  Wisdom  engrave  on  thy 
breast, 

And  deep  on  thine  Heart  be  her  lessons  imprest. 


134  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Yet  e'en  thus  imperfect,  complete,  or  defaced, 
The  skill  of  the  Printer  is  still  to  be  traced ; 
And  though  death  bend  us  early  in  life  to  his  will, 
The  wise  hand  of  our  Author  is  visible  still. 
Like  the  Colophon  lines  is  the  Epitaph's  lay, 
Which  tells  of  what  age  and  what  nation  our  day, 
And,  like  the  Device  of  the  Printer,  we  bear 
The  form  of  the  Founder,  whose  Image  we  wear. 

Then  Life's  Counsels  of  Wisdom  engrave  on  thy 
breast, 

And  deep  on  thine  Heart  be  her  lessons  imprest. 

The  work  thus  completed  its  Boards  shall  inclose, 
Till  a  Binding  more  bright  and  more  beauteous  it 

shows  ; 
And  who  can  deny,  when  Life's  Vision  hath  past, 
That  the   dark  Boards  of  Death  shall  surround  us 

at  last. 
Yet  our  Volume  illumed  with  fresh  splendors  shall 

rise, 
To  be  gazed  at  by  Angels,  and  read  to  the  skies, 
Reviewed  by  its  Author,  revised  by  his  Pen, 
In  a  fair  new  Edition  to  flourish  again. 

Then  Life's  Counsels  of  Wisdom  engrave  on  thy 

breast, 
And  deep  on  thine  Heart  be  her  lessons  imprest. 


ON  CERTAIN  BOOKS.  135 


ON    CERTAIN    BOOKS. 

Charles  Tennyson  Turner.  From  *  Sonnets.'    1864. 

FAITH  and  fixt  hope  these  pages  may  peruse, 
And  still  be  faith  and  hope ;  but,  O  ye  winds  ! 
Blow  them  far  off  from  all  unstable  minds, 
And  foolish  grasping  hands  of  youth  !     Ye  dews 
Of  heaven  !  be  pleased  to  rot  them  where  they  fall, 
Lest  loitering  boys  their  fancies  should  abuse, 
And  they  get  harm  by  chance,  that  cannot  choose  ; 
So  be  they  stain'd  and  sodden,  each  and  all ! 
And  if,  perforce,  on  dry  and  gusty  days, 
Upon  the  breeze  some  truant  leaf  should  rise, 
Brittle  with  many  weathers,  to  the  skies, 
Or  flit  and  dodge  about  the  public  ways  — 
Man's  choral  shout,  or  organ's  peal  of  praise 
Shall  shake  it  into  dust,  like  older  lies. 


I36  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 


TO  HIS  BOOKS. 

Hrvrv  Vattohan  From 'S  ilex  Scintillans :  Sacred  Poems 

Henry  VAUGHAN.  and  Pious  Ejaculations."    ib78. 

BRIGHT  books  :  perspectives  on  our  weak  sights, 
The  clear  projections  of  discerning  lights, 
Burning  in  shining  thoughts,  man's  posthume  day, 
The  track  of  fled  souls  in  their  milkie  way, 
The  dead  alive  and  busy,  the  still  voice 
Of  enlarged  spirits,  kind  heaven's  white  decoys  1 
Who  lives  with  you  lives  like  those  knowing  flowers 
Which  in  commerce  with  light  spend  all  their  hours ; 
Which  shut  to  clouds,  and  shadows  nicely  shun, 
But  with  glad  haste  unveil  to  kiss  the  sun. 
Beneath  you  all  is  dark  and  a  dead  night, 
Which  whoso  lives  in  wants  both  health  and  sight. 
By  sucking  you,  the  wise,  like  bees,  do  grow 
Healing  and  rich,  though  this  they  do  most  slow, 
Because  most  choicely ;  for  as  great  a  store 
Have  we  of  books  as  bees,  of  herbs,  or  more ; 
And  the  great  task  to  try,  then  know,  the  good, 
To  discern  weeds,  and  judge  of  wholesome  food, 
Is  a  rare  scant  performance.     For  man  dies 
Oft  ere  't  is  done,  while  the  bee  feeds  and  flies. 
But  you  were  all  choice  flowers  ;  all  set  and  drest 
By  old  sage  florists,  who  well  knew  the  best ; 


TO  HIS  BOOKS.  137 

And  I  amidst  you  all  am  turned  to  weed ! 
Not  wanting  knowledge,  but  for  want  of  heed. 
Then  thank  thyself,  wild  fool,  that  would'st  not  be 
Content  to  know  what  was  too  much  for  thee ! 


138  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS, 


LITERATURE  AND  NATURE. 

Samuel  Waddington.  Written  for  the  present  collection. 

y  TV  /TID  Cambrian  heights  around  Dolgelly  vale, 
IV A     What  time  we  scaled  great  Cader's  rugged 

pile, 
Or  loitered  idly  where  still  meadows  smile 

Beside  the  Mawddach-stream,  or  far  Cynfael  — 

Nor  tome,  nor  rhythmic  page,  nor  pastoral  tale, 
Our  summer-sated  senses  would  beguile ; 
Or  lull  our  ears  to  melody,  the  while 

The  voiceful  rill  ran  lilting  down  the  dale. 

In  London  town  once  more  —  behold,  once  more 
The  old  delight  returns  !    'Mid  heights  how  vast, 
In  Milton's  verse,  through  what  dim  paths  we  wind  ; 

How  Keats's  canvas  glows,  and  Wordsworth's  lore, 
As  tarn  or  torrent  pure,  by  none  surpass' d, 
Sheds  light  and  love  —  unfathomed,  undefined. 


THE  LIBRARY.  139 


THE  LIBRARY. 

John  Grhhnlhap  Whiter.  *3&&££2f  °f**  *****  " 

u  T     ET  there  be  Light !  "  God  spake  of  old, 

J 4     And  over  chaos  dark  and  cold, 

And  through  the  dead  and  formless  frame 
Of  nature,  life  and  order  came. 

Faint  was  the  light  at  first  that  shone 
On  giant  fern  and  mastodon, 
On  half-formed  plant  and  beast  of  prey, 
And  man  as  rude  and  wild  as  they. 

Age  after  age,  like  waves  o'erran 
The  earth,  uplifting  brute  and  man ; 
And  mind,  at  length,  in  symbols  dark 
Its  meanings  traced  on  stone  and  bark. 

On  leaf  of  palm,  on  sedge-wrought  roll, 
On  plastic  clay  and  leathern  scroll, 
Man  wrote  his  thoughts ;  the  ages  passed, 
And  lo  !  the  Press  was  found  at  last ! 

Then  dead  souls  woke ;  the  thoughts  of  men 
Whose  bones  were  dust  revived  again ; 


140  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

The  cloisters  silence  found  a  tongue, 
Old  prophets  spake,  old  poets  sung. 

And  here,  to-day,  the  dead  look  down, 
The  kings  of  mind  again  we  crown ; 
We  hear  the  voices  lost  so  long, 
The  sage's  word,  the  sibyl's  song. 

Here  Greek  and  Roman  find  themselves 
Alive  along  these  crowded  shelves ; 
And  Shakspere  treads  again  his  stage, 
And  Chaucer  paints  anew  his  age. 

As  if  some  Pantheon's  marbles  broke 
Their  stony  trance,  and  lived  and  spoke, 
Life  thrills  along  the  alcoved  hall, 
The  lords  of  thought  awake  our  call. 


THE   COUNTRY  SQUIRE.  141 


THE  COUNTRY  SQUIRE. 

Tomas  Yriarte.  A^lZ?afTF^lati0n  °f<m*  *** 

A  COUNTRY  squire,  of  greater  wealth  than  wit 
(For  fools  are  often  blessed  with  fortune's 
smile), 
Had  built  a  splendid  house,  and  furnished  it 
In  splendid  style. 

"  One  thing  is  wanting,"  said  a  friend  ;  "  for,  though 

The  rooms  are  fine,  the  furniture  profuse, 
You  lack  a  library,  dear  sir,  for  show, 

If  not  for  use." 

"  'T  is  true  \  but  'zounds  !  "  replied  the  squire  with 
glee, 
"  The  lumber-room  in  yonder  northern  wing 
(I  wonder  I  ne'er  thought  of  it)  will  be 
The  very  thing. 

"  I  '11  have  it  fitted  up  without  delay 

With  shelves  and  presses  of  the  newest  mode 
And  rarest  wood,  befitting  every  way 

A  squire's  abode." 


142  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

"  And  when  the  whole  is  ready,  I  '11  dispatch 

My  coachman  —  a  most  knowing  fellow  —  down 
To  buy  me,  by  admeasurement,  a  batch 

Of  books  in  town." 

But  ere  the  library  was  half  supplied 

With  all  its  pomps  of  cabinet  and  shelf, 

The  booby  squire  repented  him,  and  cried 

Unto  himself  :  — 

"  This  room  is  much  more  roomy  than  I  thought ; 

Ten  thousand  volumes  hardly  would  suffice 
To  fill  it,  and  would  cost,  however  bought, 
A  plaguy  price." 

"  Now  as  I  only  want  them  for  their  looks, 

It  might,  on  second  thoughts,  be  just  as  good, 
And  cost  me  next  to  nothing,  if  the  books 

Were  made  of  wood." 

"  It  shall  be  so,  I  '11  give  the  shaven  deal 

A  coat  of  paint  —  a  colorable  dress,* 
To  look  like  calf  or  vellum,  and  conceal 
Its  nakedness." 

"  And,  gilt  and  lettered  with  the  author's  name, 

Whatever  is  most  excellent  and  rare 
Shall  be,  or  seem  to  be  ('tis  all  the  same), 
Assembled  there." 


THE    COUNTRY  SQUIRE.  143 

The  work  was  done ;  the  simulated  hoards 

Of  wit  and  wisdom  round  the  chamber  stood, 
In  binding  some ;  and  some,  of  course,  in  boards, 
Where  all  were  wood. 

From  bulky  folios  down  to  slender  twelves 

The  choicest  tomes,  in  many  an  even  row 
Displayed  their  lettered  backs  upon  the  shelves, 

A  goodly  show. 

With  such  a  stock  as  seemingly  surpassed 

The  best  collection  ever  formed  in  Spain, 
What  wonder  if  the  owner  grew  at  last 

Supremely  vain  ? 

What  wonder,  as  he  paced  from  shelf  to  shelf, 

And  conned  their  titles,  that  the  squire  began, 
Despite  his  ignorance,  to  think  himself 

A  learned  man  ? 

Let  every  amateur,  who  merely  looks 

To  backs  and  binding,  take  the  hint,  and  sell 
His  costly  library  — for  painted  books 

Would  serve  as  well. 


144  BALLADS   OF  BOOKS. 


OLD  BOOKS. 

From  the  appendix  of  '  How  to  Read 
Anon.  a  Book  in  the  Best    Way."*    New 

York,  «.  d. 

I  MUST  confess  I  love  old  books  ! 
The  dearest,  too,  perhaps  most  dearly ; 
Thick,  clumpy  tomes,  of  antique  looks, 
In  pigskin  covers  fashioned  queerly. 

Clasped,  chained,  or  thonged,  stamped  quaintly  too, 
With  figures  wondrous  strange,  or  holy 

Men  and  women,  and  cherubs,  few 
Might  well  from  owls  distinguish  duly. 

I  love  black-letter  books  that  saw 

The  light  of  day  at  least  three  hundred 
Long  years  ago ;  and  look  with  awe 

On  works  that  live,  so  often  plundered. 
I 
I  love  the  sacred  dust  the  more 

It  clings  to  ancient  lore,  enshrining 
Thoughts  of  the  dead,  renowned  of  yore, 

Embalmed  in  books,  for  age  declining. 

Fit  solace,  food,  and  friends  more  sure 
To  have  around  one,  always  handy, 


OLD  BOOKS.  145 

When  sinking  spirits  find  no  cure 
In  news,  election  brawls,  or  brandy. 

In  these  old  books,  more  soothing  far 
Than  balm  of  Gilead  or  Nepenthe, 

I  seek  an  antidote  for  care  — 
Of  which  most  men  indeed  have  plenty. 

"  Five  hundred  times  at  least,"  I  've  said  — 
My  wife  assures  me  —  "I  would  never 

Buy  more  old  books  ; "  yet  lists  are  made, 
And  shelves  are  lumbered  more  than  ever 

Ah  !  that  our  wives  could  only  see 

How  well  the  money  is  invested 
In  these  old  books,  which  seem  to  be 

By  them,  alas !  so  much  detested. 

There  's  nothing  hath  enduring  youth, 
Eternal  newness,  strength  unfailing, 

Except  old  books,  old  friends,  old  truth, 
That 's  ever  battling  —  still  prevailing. 

'T  is  better  in  the  past  to  live 

Than  grovel  in  the  present  vilely, 
In  clubs,  and  cliques,  where  placemen  hive, 

And  faction  hums,  and  dolts  rank  highly. 

To  be  enlightened,  counselled,  led, 
By  master  minds  of  former  ages, 


146  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Come  to  old  books  —  consult  the  dead  — 
Commune  with  silent  saints  and  sages. 

Leave  me,  ye  gods  !  to  my  old  books  — 
Polemics  yield  to  sects  that  wrangle  — 

Vile  "  parish  politics  "  to  folks 

Who  love  to  squabble,  scheme,  and  jangle. 

Dearly  beloved  old  pigskin  tomes  ! 

Of  dingy  hue  —  old  bookish  darlings  ! 
Oh,  cluster  ever  round  my  rooms, 

And  banish  strifes,  disputes,  and  snarlings. 


&VVZVtoi% 


THE    LIBRARY 

BY 

GEORGE  CRABBE 


THE  LIBRARY.  1 49 


THE   LIBRARY. 

In  want  and  danger,  the  unknown 

Poet    sent  this   poem    to    Edmund 

George  Crabbe.  Burke,  who  saw  its  merit,  befriended 

its  autlior,  a?td procured  its  publica- 
tion. 

WHEN    the  sad  soul,   by   care  and  grief  op- 
pressed, 
Looks  round  the  world,  but  looks  in  vain  for  rest, 
When  every  object  that  appears  in  view 
Partakes  her  gloom  and  seems  dejected  too  ; 
Where  shall  affliction  from  itself  retire  ? 
Where  fade  away  and  placidly  expire  ? 
Alas  !  we  fly  to  silent  scenes  in  vain  ; 
Care  blasts  the  honors  of  the  flowery  plain ; 
Care  veils  in  clouds  the  sun's  meridian  beam, 
Sighs  through  the  grove,  and  murmurs  in  the  stream  j 
For  when  the  soul  is  laboring  in  despair, 
In  vain  the  body  breathes  a  purer  air : 
No  storm-tost  sailor  sighs  for  slumbering  seas  — 
He  dreads  the  tempest,  but  invokes  the  breeze ; 
On  the  smooth  mirror  of  the  deep  resides 
Reflected  woe,  and  o'er  unruffled  tides 
The  ghost  of  every  former  danger  glides. 
Thus,  in  the  calms  of  life,  we  only  see 
A  steadier  image  of  our  misery ; 


150  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

But  lively  gales  and  gently  clouded  skies 
Disperse  the  sad  reflections  as  they  rise ; 
And  busy  thoughts  and  little  cares  avail 
To  ease  the  mind,  when  rest  and  reason  fail. 
When  the  dull  thought,  by  no  designs  employed, 
Dwells  on  the  past,  or  suffered  or  enjoyed, 
We  bleed  anew  in  every  former  grief, 
And  joys  departed  furnish  no  relief. 

Not  Hope  herself,  with  all  her  flattering  art, 
Can  cure  this  stubborn  sickness  of  the  heart : 
The  soul  disdains  each  comfort  she  prepares, 
And  anxious  searches  for  congenial  cares ; 
Those  lenient  cares,  which,  with  our  own  combined, 
By  mixed  sensations  ease  th'  afflicted  mind, 
And  steal  our  grief  away,  and  leave  their  own  behind  j 
A  lighter  grief !  which  feeling  hearts  endure 
Without  regret,  nor  e'en  demand  a  cure. 

But  what  strange  art,  what  magic  can  dispose 
The  troubled  mind  to  change  its  native  woes  ? 
Or  lead  us,  willing  from  ourselves,  to  see 
Others  more  wretched,  more  undone  than  we  ? 
This  Books  can  do  ;  —  nor  this  alone  ;  they  give 
New  views  to  life,  and  teach  us  how  to  live ; 
They  soothe  the  grieved,  the  stubborn  they  chastise, 
Fools  they  admonish  and  confirm  the  wise : 
Their  aid  they  yield  to  all :  they  never  shun 
The  man  of  sorrow,  nor  the  wretch  undone : 
Unlike  the  hard,  the  selfish,  and  the  proud, 
They  fly  not  sullen  from  the  suppliant  crowd  ; 
Nor  tell  to  various  people  various  things, 


THE  LIBRARY.  151 

But  show  to  subjects  what  they  show  to  kings. 

Come,  Child  of  Care  !  to  make  thy  soul  serene, 

Approach  the  treasures  of  this  tranquil  scene  ; 

Survey  the  dome,  and,  as  the  doors  unfold, 

The  soul's  best  cure,  in  all  her  cares  behold  ! 

Where  mental  wealth  the  poor  in  thought  may  find, 

And  mental  physic  the  diseased  in  mind  \ 

See  here  the  balms  that  passion's  wounds  assuage ; 

See  coolers  here,  that  damp  the  fire  of  rage ; 

Here  alteratives,  by  slow  degrees  control 

The  chronic  habits  of  the  sickly  soul ; 

And  round  the  heart,  and  o'er  the  aching  head, 

Mild  opiates  here  their  sober  influence  shed. 

Now  bid  thy  soul  man's  busy  scenes  exclude, 

And  view  composed  this  silent  multitude  :  — 

Silent  they  are  —  but  though  deprived  of  sound, 

Here  all  the  living  languages  abound ; 

Here  all  that  live  no  more  ;  preserved  they  lie, 

In  tombs  that  open  to  the  curious  eye. 

Blest  be  the  gracious  Power,  who  taught  mankind 
To  stamp  a  lasting  image  of  the  mind  ! 
Beasts  may  convey,  and  tuneful  birds  may  sing, 
Their  mutual  feelings,  in  the  opening  spring ; 
But  Man  alone  has  skill  and  power  to  send 
The  heart's  warm  dictates  to  the  distant  friend ; 
'Tis  his  alone  to  please,  instruct,  advise 
Ages  remote,  and  nations  yet  to  rise. 

In  sweet  repose,  when  Labor's  children  sleep, 
When  Joy  forgets  to  smile  and  Care  to  weep, 
When  Passion  slumbers  in  the  lover's  breast, 


152  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

And  Fear  and  Guilt  partake  the  balm  of  rest, 
Why  then  denies  the  studious  man  to  share 
Man's  common  good,  who  feels  his  common  care  ? 

Because  the  hope  is  his  that  bids  him  fly 
Night's  soft  repose,  and  sleep's  mild  power  defy, 
That  after-ages  may  repeat  his  praise, 
And  fame's  fair  meed  be  his,  for  length  of  days. 
Delightful  prospect !  when  we  leave  behind 
A  worthy  offspring  of  the  fruitful  mind  ! 
Which,  born  and  nursed  through  many  an  anxious 

day, 
Shall  all  our  labor,  all  our  care  repay. 

Yet  all  are  not  these  births  of  noble  kind, 
Not  all  the  children  of  a  vigorous  mind ; 
But  where  the  wisest  should  alone  preside, 
The  weak  would  rule  us,  and  the  blind  would  guide  ; 
Nay,  man's  best  efforts  taste  of  man,  and  show 
The  poor  and  troubled  source  from  which  they  flow ; 
Where  most  he  triumphs  we  his  wants  perceive, 
And  for  his  weakness  in  his  wisdom  grieve. 
But  though  imperfect  all :  yet  wisdom  loves 
This  seat  serene,  and  virtue's  self  approves  :  — 
Here  come  the  grieved,  a  change  of  thought  to  find ; 
The  curious  here  to  feed  a  craving  mind ; 
Here  the  devout  their  peaceful  temple  choose ; 
And  here  the  poet  meets  his  favoring  Muse. 

With  awe,  around  these  silent  walks  I  tread ; 
These  are  the  lasting  mansions  of  the  dead  :  — 
"  The  dead !  "  methinks  a  thousand  tongues  reply ; 
"  These  are  the  tombs  of  such  as  cannot  die  ! 


THE  LIBRARY.  1 53 

Crowned  with  eternal  fame,  they  sit  sublime, 
And  laugh  at  all  the  little  strife  of  time. 

Hail,  then,  immortals  !  ye  who  shine  above, 
Each,  in  his  sphere,  the  literary  Jove  ; 
And  ye,  the  common  people  of  these  skies, 
A  humbler  crowd  of  nameless  deities  ; 
Whether  't  is  yours  to  lead  the  willing  mind 
Through  History's  mazes,  and  the  turnings  find  ; 
Or,  whether  led  by  Science,  ye  retire, 
Lost  and  bewildered  in  the  vast  desire, 
Whether  the  Muse  invites  you  to  her  bowers, 
And  crowns  your  placid  brows  with  living  flowers  ! 
Or  godlike  Wisdom  teaches  you  to  show 
The  noblest  road  to  happiness  below ; 
Or  men  and  manners  prompt  the  easy  page 
To  mark  the  flying  follies  of  the  age  ; 
Whatever  good  ye  boast,  that  good  impart; 
Inform  the  head  and  rectify  the  heart. 

Lo,  all  in  silence,  all  in  order  stand, 
And  mighty  folios,  first  a  lordly  band  ; 
Then  quartos  their  well-ordered  ranks  maintain, 
And  light  octavos  fill  a  spacious  plain  : 
See  yonder,  ranged  in  more  frequented  rows, 
A  humbler  band  of  duodecimos  \ 
While  undistinguish'd  trifles  swell  the  scene, 
The  last  new  play  and  frittered  magazine. 
Thus  't  is  in  life,  where  first  the  proud,  the  great, 
In  leagued  assembly  keep  their  cumbrous  state  : 
Heavy  and  huge,  they  fill  the  world  with  dread, 
Are  much  admired,  and  are  but  little  read : 


154  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

The  commons  next,  a  middle  rank,  are  found ; 
Professions  fruitful  pour  their  offspring  round ; 
Reasoners  and  wits  are  next  their  place  allowed, 
And  last,  of  vulgar  tribes  a  countless  crowd. 

First,  let  us  view  the  form,  the  size,  the  dress  : 
For  these  the  manners,  nay  the  mind,  express  : 
That  weight  of  wood,  with  leathern  coat  o'erlaid ; 
Those  ample  clasps  of  solid  metal  made ; 
The  close-pressed  leaves,  unclosed  for  many  an  age ; 
The  dull  red  edging  of  the  well-filled  page ; 
On  the  broad  back  the  stubborn  ridges  rolled, 
Where  yet  the  title  stands  in  tarnished  gold ; 
These  all  a  sage  and  labored  work  proclaim, 
A  painful  candidate  for  lasting  fame  : 
No  idle  wit,  no  trifling  verse  can  lurk 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  that  weighty  work ; 
No  playful  thoughts  degrade  the  solemn  style, 
Nor  one  light  sentence  claims  a  transient  smile. 

Hence,  in  these  times,  untouched  the  pages  lie, 
And  slumber  out  their  immortality : 
They  had  their  day,  when,  after  all  his  toil, 
His  morning  study,  and  his  midnight  oil, 
At  length  an  author's  one  great  work  appeared, 
By  patient  hope,  and  length  of  days  endeared  : 
Expecting  nations  haled  it  from  the  press ; 
Poetic  friends  prefixed  each  kind  address  ; 
Princes  and  kings  received  the  pond'rous  gift, 
And  ladies  read  the  work  they  could  not  lift. 
Fashion,  though  Folly's  child,  and  guide  of  fools, 
Rules  e'en  the  wisest,  and  in  learning  rules  ; 


THE  LIBRARY.  155 

From  crowds  and  courts  to  Wisdom's  seat  she  goes, 
And  reigns  triumphant  o'er  her  mother's  foes. 
For  lo  !  these  favorites  of  the  ancient  mode 
Lie  all  neglected  like  the  Birthday  Ode. 

Ah  !  needless  now  this  weight  of  massy  chain, 
Safe  in  themselves,  the  once-loved  works  remain ; 
No  readers  now  invade  their  still  retreat, 
None  try  to  steal  them  from  their  parent  seat ; 
Like  ancient  beauties,  they  may  now  discard 
Chains,  bolts,  and  locks,  and  lie  without  a  guard. 

Our  patient  fathers  trifling  themes  laid  by, 
And  rolled,  o'er  labored  works,  th'  attentive  eye  : 
Page  after  page  the  much  enduring  men 
Explored  the  deeps  and  shallows  of  the  pen  : 
Till,  every  former  note  and  comment  known, 
They  marked  the  spacious  margin  with  their  own  ; 
Minute  corrections  proved  their  studious  care ; 
The  little  index,  pointing,  told  us  where ; 
And  many  an  emendation  showed  the  age 
Looked  far  beyond  the  rubric  title-page. 

Our  nicer  palates  lighter  labors  seek, 
Cloyed  with  a  ioXxo-Number  once  a  week  ; 
Bibles,  with  cuts  and  comments,  thus  go  down  : 
E'en  light  Voltaire  is  numbered  through  the  town : 
Thus  physic  flies  abroad,  and  thus  the  law, 
From  men  of  study,  and  from  men  of  straw ; 
Abstracts,  abridgments,  please  the  fickle  times, 
Pamphlets  and  plays,  and  politics  and  rhymes  :  ■ 
But  though  to  write  be  now  a  task  of  ease, 
The  task  is  hard  by  manly  arts  to  please, 


156  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

When  all  our  weakness  is  exposed  to  view, 
And  half  our  judges  are  our  rivals  too. 

Amid  these  works,  on  which  the  eager  eye 
Delights  to  fix,  or  glides  reluctant  by, 
When  all  combined,  their  decent  pomp  display, 
Where  shall  we  first  our  early  offering  pay  ?  — 

To  thee,  Divinity  !  to  thee,  the  light 
And  guide  of  mortals,  through  their  mental  night ; 
By  whom  we  learn  our  hopes  and  fears  to  guide ; 
To  bear  with  pain,  and  to  contend  with  pride ; 
When  grieved,  to  pray ;  when  injured,  to  forgive ; 
And  with  the  world  in  charity  to  live. 

Not  truths  like  these  inspired  that  numerous  race, 
Whose  pious  labors  fill  this  ample  space  ; 
But  questions  nice,  where  doubt  on  doubt  arose, 
Awaked  to  war  the  long-contending  foes. 
For  dubious  meanings,  learned  polemics  strove, 
And  wars  on  faith  prevented  works  of  love  ; 
The  brands  of  discord  far  around  were  hurled, 
And  holy  wrath  inflamed  a  sinful  world :  — 
Dull  though  impatient,  peevish  though  devout, 
With  wit,  disgusting  and  despised  without ; 
Saints  in  design,  in  execution  men, 
Peace  in  their  looks,  and  vengeance  in  their  pen. 

Methinks  I  see,  and  sicken  at  the  sight, 
Spirits  of  spleen  from  yonder  pile  alight ; 
Spirits  who  prompted  every  damning  page, 
With  pontiff  pride,  and  still  increasing  rage  : 
Lo  !  how  they  stretch  their  gloomy  wings  around, 
And  lash  with  furious  strokes  the  trembling  ground  ! 


THE  LIBRARY.  157 

They  pray,  they  fight,  they  murder,  and  they  weep, 
Wolves  in  their  vengeance,  in  their  manners  sheep ; 
Too  well  they  act  the  prophet's  fatal  part, 
Denouncing  evil  with  a  zealous  heart ; 
And  each,  like  Jonah,  is  displeased  if  God 
Repent  his  anger,  or  withold  his  rod. 

But  here  the  dormant  fury  rests  unsought, 
And  Zeal  sleeps  soundly  by  the  foes  she  fought ; 
Here  all  the  rage  of  controversy  ends, 
And  rival  zealots  rest  like  bosom  friends : 
An  Athanasian  here,  in  deep  repose, 
Sleeps  with  the  fiercest  of  his  Arian  foes ; 
Socinians  here  with  Calvinists  abide, 
And  thin  partitions  angry  chiefs  divide  ; 
Here  wily  Jesuits  simple  Quakers  meet, 
And  Bellarmine  has  rest  at  Luther's  feet. 
Great  authors,  for  the  church's  glory  fired, 
Are  for  the  church's  peace  to  rest  retired ; 
And  close  beside,  a  mystic,  maudlin  race, 
Lie  "  Crumbs  of  Comfort  for  the  Babes  of  Grace." 

Against  her  foes  Religion  well  defends 
Her  sacred  truths,  but  often  fears  her  friends ; 
If  learned,  their  pride,  if  weak,  their  zeal  she  dreads, 
And  their  hearts'  weakness,  who  have  soundest  heads. 
But  most  she  fears  the  controversial  pen, 
The  holy  strife  of  disputatious  men  ; 
Who  the  blest  Gospel's  peaceful  page  explore, 
Only  to  fight  against  its  precepts  more. 

Near  to  these  seats  behold  yon  slender  frames, 
All  closely  filled  and  marked  with  modern  names ; 


158  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Where  no  fair  science  ever  shows  her  face, 

Few  sparks  of  genius,  and  no  spark  of  grace  ; 

There  sceptics  rest,  a  still  increasing  throng, 

And  stretch  their  widening  wings  ten  thousand  strong  j 

Some  in  close  fight  their  dubious  claims  maintain  ; 

Some  skirmish  lightly,  fly,  and  fight  again ; 

Coldly  profane,  and  impiously  gay, 

Their  end  the  same,  though  various  in  their  way. 

When  first  Religion  came  to  bless  the  land, 
Her  friends  were  then  a  firm  believing  band  ; 
To  doubt  was  then  to  plunge  in  guilt  extreme, 
And  all  was  gospel  that  a  monk  could  dream ; 
Insulted  Reason  fled  the  grov'lling  soul, 
For  Fear  to  guide  and  visions  to  control : 
But  now,  when  Reason  has  assumed  her  throne, 
She,  in  her  turn  demands  to  reign  alone ; 
Rejecting  all  that  lies  beyond  her  view, 
And,  being  judge,  will  be  a  witness  too  : 
Insulted  Faith  then  leaves  the  doubtful  mind, 
To  seek  for  truth,  without  a  power  to  find  : 
Ah  !  when  will  both  in  friendly  beams  unite, 
And  pour  on  erring  man  resistless  light ! 

Next  to  the  seats,  well  stored  with  works  divine, 
An  ample  space,  Philosophy  !  is  thine  ; 
Our  reason's  guide,  by  whose  assisting  light 
We  trace  the  moral  bounds  of  wrong  and  right ; 
Our  guide  through  nature,  from  the  sterile  clay, 
To  the  bright  orbs  of  yon  celestial  way  ! 
'T  is  thine,  the  great,  the  golden  chain  to  trace, 
Which  runs  through  all,  connecting  race  with  race 


THE  LIBRARY.  159 

Save  where  those  puzzling,  stubborn  links  remain, 
Which  thy  inferior  light  pursues  in  vain  :  — 

How  vice  and  virtue  in  the  soul  contend  ; 
How  widely  differ,  yet  how  nearly  blend  ; 
What  various  passions  war  on  either  part, 
And  now  confirm,  now  melt  the  yielding  heart : 
How  Fancy  loves  around  the  world  to  stray, 
While  Judgment  slowly  picks  his  sober  way  \ 
The  stores  of  memory  and  the  flights  sublime 
Of  genius,  bound  by  neither  space  nor  time  \  — 
All  these  divine  Philosophy  explores, 
Till,  lost  in  awe,  she  wonders  and  adores. 

From  these,  descending  to  the  earth,  she  turns, 
And  matter,  in  its  various  forms,  discerns  ; 
She  parts  the  beamy  light  with  skill  profound, 
Metes  the  thin  air,  and  weighs  the  flying  sound ; 
'T  is  hers  the  lightning  from  the  clouds  to  call, 
And  teach  the  fiery  mischief  where  to  fall. 

Yet  more  her  volumes  teach  —  on  these  we  look 
Abstracts  drawn  from  Nature's  larger  book ; 
Here,  first  described,  the  torpid  earth  appears, 
And  next,  the  vegetable  robe  it  wears  ; 
Where  flowery  tribes  in  valleys,  fields,  and  groves, 
Nurse  the  still  flame,  and  feed  the  silent  loves  ; 
Loves  where  no  grief,  nor  joy,  nor  bliss,  nor  pain, 
Warm  the  glad  heart  or  vex  the  laboring  brain ; 
But  as  the  green  blood  moves  along  the  blade, 
The  bed  of  Flora  on  the  branch  is  made  ; 
Where,  without  passion,  love  instinctive  lives, 
And  gives  new  life,  unconscious  that  it  gives. 


160  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Advancing  still  in  Nature's  maze,  we  trace, 
In  dens  and  burning  plains,  her  savage  race 
With  those  tame  tribes  who  on  their  lord  attend, 
And  find  in  man  a  master  and  a  friend  ; 
Man  crowns  the  scene,  a  world  of  wonders  new, 
A  moral  world,  that  well  demands  our  view. 

This  world  is  here  ;  for,  of  more  lofty  kind, 
These  neighboring  volumes  reason  on  the  mind ; 
They  paint  the  state  of  man  ere  yet  endued 
With  knowledge ;  —  man,  poor,  ignorant,  and  rude  ; 
Then,  as  his  state  improves,  their  pages  swell, 
And  all  its  cares,  and  all  its  comforts  tell  : 
Here  we  behold  how  inexperience  buys, 
At  little  price,  the  wisdom  of  the  wise  ; 
Without  the  troubles  of  an  active  state, 
Without  the  cares  and  dangers  of  the  great, 
Without  the  miseries  of  the  poor,  we  know 
What  wisdom,  wealth,  and  poverty  bestow ; 
We  see  how  reason  calms  the  raging  mind, 
And  how  contending  passions  urge  mankind  : 
Some,  won  by  virtue,  glow  with  sacred  fire ; 
Some,  lured  by  vice,  indulge  the  low  desire  ; 
Whilst  others,  won  by  either,  now  pursue 
The  guilty  chase,  now  keep  the  good  in  view  ; 
Forever  wretched,  with  themselves  at  strife, 
They  lead  a  puzzled,  vexed,  uncertain  life  ; 
For  transient  vice  bequeaths  a  lingering  pain, 
Which  transient  virtue  seeks  to  cure  in  vain. 

Whilst  thus  engaged,  high  views  enlarge  the  soul, 
New  interest  draws,  new  principles  control : 


THE  LIBRARY.  ^i 

Nor  thus  the  soul  alone  resigns  her  grief, 

But  here  the  tortured  body  finds  relief ; 

For  see  where  yonder  sage  Arachne  shapes 

Her  subtle  gin,  that  not  a  fly  escapes  ! 

There  Physic  fills  the  space,  and  far  around, 

Pile  above  pile  her  learned  works  abound  : 

Glorious  their  aim  —  to  ease  the  laboring  heart ; 

To  war  with  death,  and  stop  his  flying  dart ; 

To  trace  the  source  whence  the  fierce  contest  grew ; 

And  life's  short  lease  on  easier  terms  renew ; 

To  calm  the  frenzy  of  the  burning  brain  ; 

To  heal  the  tortures  of  imploring  pain ; 

Or,  when  more  powerful  ills  all  efforts  brave, 

To  ease  the  victim  no  device  can  save, 

And  smooth  the  stormy  passage  to  the  grave. 

But  man,  who  knows  no  good  unmixed  and  pure, 
Oft  finds  a  poison  where  he  sought  a  cure ; 
For  grave  deceivers  lodge  their  labors  here, 
And  cloud  the  science  they  pretend  to  clear ; 
Scourges  for  sin,  the  solemn  tribe  are  sent ; 
Like  fire  and  storms,  they  call  us  to  repent ; 
But  storms  subside,  and  fires  forget  to  rage. 
These  are  eternal  scourges  of  the  age  : 
'T  is  not  enough  that  each  terrific  hand 
Spreads  desolation  round  a  guilty  land ; 
But  trained  to  ill,  and  hardened  by  its  crimes, 
Their  pen  relentless  kills  through  future  times, 

Say,  ye,  who  search  these  records  of  the  dead  — 
Who  read  huge  works,  to  boast  what  ye  have  read, 
Can  all  the  real  knowledge  ye  possess, 


162  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Or  those  —  if  such  there  are  —  who  more  than  guess, 
Atone  for  each  impostor's  wild  mistakes, 
And  mend  the  blunders  pride  or  folly  makes  ? 

What  thought  so  wild,  what  airy  dream  so  light, 
That  will  not  prompt  a  theorist  to  write  ? 
What  art  so  prevalent,  what  proofs  so  strong, 
That  will  convince  him  his  attempt  is  wrong  ? 
One  in  the  solids  finds  each  lurking  ill, 
Nor  grants  the  passive  fluids  power  to  kill  ; 
A  learned  friend  some  subtler  reason  brings, 
Absolves  the  channels,  but  condemns  their  spring ; 
The  subtile  nerves,  that  shun  the  doctor's  eye, 
Escape  no  more  his  subtler  theory ; 
The  vital  heat,  that  warms  the  laboring  heart, 
Lends  a  fair  system  to  these  sons  of  art ; 
The  vital  air,  a  pure  and  subtile  stream, 
Serves  a  foundation  for  an  airy  scheme, 
Assists  the  doctor  and  supports  his  dream. 
Some  have  their  favorite  ills,  and  each  disease 
Is  but  a  younger  branch  that  kills  from  these  ; 
One  to  the  gout  contracts  all  human  pain  \ 
He  views  it  raging  in  the  frantic  brain  ; 
Finds  it  in  fevers  all  his  efforts  mar, 
And  sees  it  lurking  in  the  cold  catarrh  ; 
Bilious  by  some,  by  others  nervous  seen, 
Rage  the  fantastic  demons  of  the  spleen  ; 
And  every  symptom  of  the  strange  disease 
With  every  system  of  the  sage  agrees. 

Ye  frigid  tribe,  on  whom  I  wasted  long 
The  tedious  hours,  and  ne'er  indulged  in  song  ; 


THE  LIBRARY.  163 

Ye  first  seducers  of  my  easy  heart, 
Who  promised  knowledge  ye  could  not  impart ; 
Ye  dull  deluders,  truth's  destructive  foes ; 
Ye  sons  of  fiction,  clad  in  stupid  prose  ; 
Ye  treacherous  leaders,  who,  yourselves  in  doubt, 
Light  up  false  fires,  and  send  us  far  about ;  — 
Still  may  yon  spider  round  your  pages  spin, 
Subtile  and  slow,  her  emblematic  gin  ! 
Buried  in  dust  and  lost  in  silence,  dwell, 
Most  potent,   grave,   and  reverend   friends  —  fare- 
well! 
Near  these,  and  where  the  setting  sun  displays, 
Through  the  dim  window,  his  departing  rays, 
And  gilds  yon  columns,  there,  on  either  side, 
The  huge  Abridgments  of  the  Law  abide ; 
Fruitful  as  vice,  the  dread  correctors  stand, 
And  spread  their  guardian  terrors  round  the  land ; 
Yet,  as  the  best  that  human  care  can  do 
Is  mixed  with  error,  oft  with  evil  too, 
Skilled  in  deceit,  and  practised  to  evade, 
Knaves    stand  secure,  for  whom   these  laws  were 

made, 
And  justice  vainly  each  expedient  tries, 
While  art  eludes  it,  or  while  power  defies. 
"  Ah  !  happy  age,"  the  youthful  poet  sings, 
"  When  the  free  nations  knew  not  laws  nor  kings, 
When  all  were  blest  to  share  a  common  store, 
And  none  were  proud  of  wealth,  for  none  were  poor, 
No  wars  nor  tumults  vexed  each  still  domain, 
No  thirst  of  empire,  no  desire  of  gain  ; 


1 64  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

No  proud  great  man,  nor  one  who  would  be  great, 
Drove  modest  merit  from  its  proper  state  ; 
Nor  into  distant  climes  would  Avarice  roam, 
To  fetch  delights  for  Luxury  at  home  : 
Bound  by  no  ties  which  kept  the  soul  in  awe, 
They  dwelt  at  liberty,  and  love  was  law ! " 

"  Mistaken  youth  !  each  nation  first  was  rude, 
Each  man  a  cheerless  son  of  solitude, 
To  whom  no  joys  of  social  life  were  known, 
None  felt  a  care  that  was  not  all  his  own  \ 
Or  in  some  languid  clime  his  abject  soul 
Bowed  to  a  little  tyrant's  stern  control ; 
A  slave,  with  slaves  his  monarch's  throne  he  raised, 
And  in  rude  song  his  ruder  idol  praised  j 
The  meaner  cares  of  life  were  all  he  knew ; 
Bounded  his  pleasures,  and  his  wishes  few ; 
But  when  by  slow  degrees  the  Arts  arose, 
And  Science  wakened  from  her  long  repose ; 
When  Commerce,  rising  from  the  bed  of  ease, 
Ran  round  the  land,  and  pointed  to  the  seas  ; 
When  Emulation,  born  with  jealous  eye, 
And  Avarice,  lent  their  spurs  to  industry ; 
Then  one  by  one  the  numerous  laws  were  made, 
Those  to  control,  and  these  to  succor  trade  ; 
To  curb  the  insolence  of  rude  command, 
To  snatch  the  victim  from  the  usurer's  hand  ; 
To  awe  the  bold,  to  yield  the  wronged  redress, 
And  feed  the  poor  with  Luxury's  excess." 

Like  some  vast  flood,  unbounded,  fierce,  and  strong, 
His  nature  leads  ungoverned  man  along ; 


THE  LIBRARY.  1 65 

Like  mighty  bulwarks  made  to  stem  that  tide, 
The  laws  are  formed  and  placed  on  every  side ; 
Whene'er  it  breaks  the  bounds  by  these  decreed, 
New  statutes  rise,  and  stronger  laws  succeed  ; 
More  and  more  gentle  grows  the  dying  stream, 
More  and  more  strong  the  rising  bulwarks  seem  ; 
Till,  like  a  miner  working  sure  and  slow, 
Luxury  creeps  on,  and  ruins  all  below ; 
The  basis  sinks,  the  ample  piles  decay ; 
The  stately  fabric  shakes  and  falls  away  ; 
Primeval  want  and  ignorance  come  on, 
But  Freedom,  that  exalts  the  savage  state,  is  gone. 

Next  History  ranks  ;  —  there  full  in  front  she  lies, 
And  every  nation  her  dread  tale  supplies ; 
Yet  History  has  her  doubts,  and  every  age 
With  sceptic  queries  marks  the  passing  page  ; 
Records  of  old  nor  later  date  are  clear, 
Too  distant  those,  and  these  are  placed  too  near ; 
There  time  conceals  the  objects  from  our  view, 
Here  our  own  passions  and  a  writer's  too  : 
Yet,  in  these  volumes,  see  how  states  arose ! 
Guarded  by  virtue  from  surrounding  foes  ; 
Their  virtue  lost,  and  of  their  triumphs  vain, 
Lo  !  how  they  sunk  to  slavery  again  ! 
Satiate  with  power,  of  fame  and  wealth  possessed, 
A  nation  grows  too  glorious  to  be  blest; 
Conspicuous  made,  she  stands  the  mark  of  all, 
And  foes  join  foes  to  triumph  in  her  fall. 

Thus  speaks  the  page  that  paints  ambition's  race, 
The  monarch's  pride,  his  glory,  his  disgrace ; 


166  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

The  headlong  course  that  maddening  heroes  run, 
How  soon  triumphant,  and  how  soon  undone ; 
How  slaves,  turned  tyrants,  offer  crowns  to  sale, 
And  each  fallen  nation's  melancholy  tale. 

Lo  !  where  of  late  the  Book  of  Martyrs  stood, 
Old  pious  tracts,  and  Bibles  bound  in  wood ; 
There,  such  the  taste  of  our  degenerate  age, 
Stand  the  profane  delusions  of  the  Stage  : 
Yet  virtue  owns  the  Tragic  Muse  a  friend, 
Fable  her  means,  morality  her  end  ; 
For  this  she  rules  all  passions  in  their  turns, 
And  now  the  bosom  bleeds,  and  now  it  burns; 
Pity  with  weeping  eye  surveys  her  bowl, 
Her  anger  swells,  her  terror  chills  the  soul ; 
She  makes  the  vile  to  virtue  yield  applause, 
And  own  her  sceptre  while  they  break  her  laws ; 
For  vice  in  others  is  abhorred  of  all, 
And  villains  triumph  when  the  worthless  fall. 

Not  thus  her  sister  Comedy  prevails, 
Who  shoots  at  Folly,  for  her  arrow  fails  j 
Folly,  by  Dulness  armed,  eludes  the  wound, 
And  harmless  sees  the  feathered  shafts  rebound ; 
Unhurt  she  stands,  applauds  the  archer's  skill, 
Laughs  at  her  malice,  and  is  Folly  still. 
Yet  well  the  Muse  portrays,  in  fancied  scenes, 
What  pride  will  stoop  to,  what  profession  means  \ 
How  formal  fools  the  farce  of  state  applaud ; 
How  caution  watches  at  the  lips  of  fraud ; 
The  wordy  variance  of  domestic  life  ; 
The  tyrant  husband,  the  retorting  wife ; 


THE  LIBRARY.  167 

The  snares  for  innocence,  the  lie  of  trade, 
And  the  smooth  tongue's  habitual  masquerade. 

With  her  the  Virtues  to  obtain  a  place, 
Each  gentle  passion,  each  becoming  grace  ; 
The  social  joy  in  life's  securer  road, 
Its  easy  pleasure,  its  substantial  good  ; 
The  happy  thought  that  conscious  virtue  gives, 
And  all  that  ought  to  live,  and  all  that  lives. 

But  who  are  these  ?     Methinks  a  noble  mien 
And  awful  grandeur  in  their  form  are  seen, 
Now  in  disgrace  :  what  though  by  time  is  spread 
Polluting  dust  o'er  every  reverend  head ; 
What  though  beneath  yon  gilded  tribe  they  lie, 
And  dull  observers  pass  insulting  by : 
Forbid  it  shame,  forbid  it  decent  awe, 
What  seems  so  grave,  should  no  attention  draw ! 
Come,  let  us  then  with  reverend  step  advance, 
And  greet  —  the  ancient  worthies  of  Romance. 

Hence,  ye  profane  !     I  feel  a  former  dread, 
A  thousand  visions  float  around  my  head : 
Hark !  hollow  blasts  through  empty  courts  resound, 
And  shadowy  forms  with  staring  eyes  stalk  round ; 
See !  moats  and  bridges,  walls  and  castles  rise, 
Ghosts,  fairies,  demons,  dance  before  our  eyes  ; 
Lo  !  magic  verse  inscribed  on  golden  gate ; 
And  bloody  hand  that  beckons  on  to  fate  :  — 
"And  who  art  thou,  thou  little  page,  unfold  ? 
Say,  doth  thy  lord  my  Claribel  withhold  ? 
Go  tell  him  straight,  Sir  Knight,  thou  must  resign 
The  captive  queen ;  —  for  Claribel  is  mine." 


1 68  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Away  he  flies  ;  and  now  for  bloody  deeds, 
Black  suits  of  armor,  masks,  and  foaming  steeds ; 
The  giant  falls ;  his  recreant  throat  I  seize, 
And  from  his  corselet  take  the  massy  keys  :  — 
Dukes,  lords,  and  knights  in  long  procession  move, 
Released  from  bondage  with  my  virgin  love  :  — 
She  comes  !  she  comes !  in  all  the  charms  of  youth, 
Unequalled  love,  and  unsuspected  truth ! 

Ah  !  happy  he  who  thus,  in  magic  themes, 
O'er  worlds  bewitched,  in  early  rapture  dreams, 
Where  wild  Enchantment  waves  her  potent  wand, 
And  Fancy's  beauties  fill  her  fairy  land  ; 
Where  doubtful  objects  strange  desires  excite, 
And  Fear  and  Ignorance  afford  delight. 

But  lost,  for  ever  lost,  to  me  these  joys, 
Which  Reason  scatters,  and  which  Time  destroys ; 
Too  dearly  bought :  maturer  judgment  calls 
My  busied  mind  from  tales  and  madrigals  ; 
My  doughty  giants  all  are  slain  or  fled 
And   all   my  knights  —  blue,  green,   and  yellow  — 

dead ! 
No  more  the  midnight  fairy  tribe  I  view, 
All  in  the  merry  moonshine  tippling  dew ; 
E'en  the  last  lingering  fiction  of  the  brain, 
The  churchyard  ghost  is  now  at  rest  again ; 
And  all  these  wayward  wanderings  of  my  youth 
Fly  Reason's  power,  and  shun  the  light  of  Truth. 

With  Fiction  then  does  real  joy  reside, 
And  is  our  reason  the  delusive  guide  ? 
Is  it  then  right  to  dream  the  sirens  sing  ? 


THE   LIBRARY.  1 69 

Or  mount  enraptured  on  the  dragon's  wing  ? 
No  ;  't  is  the  infant  mind,  to  care  unknown, 
That  makes  th'  imagined  paradise  its  own  ; 
Soon  as  reflections  in  the  bosom  rise, 
Light  slumbers  vanish  from  the  clouded  eyes  : 
The  tear  and  smile,  that  once  together  rose, 
Are  then  divorced  5  the  head  and  heart  are  foes  : 
Enchantment  bows  to  Wisdom's  serious  plan, 
And  Pain  and  Prudence  make  and  mar  the  man. 

While  thus,  of  power  and  fancied  empire  vain, 
With  various  thoughts  my  mind  I  entertain ; 
While  books,  my  slaves,  with  tyrant  hand  I  seize, 
Pleased  with  the  pride  that  will  not  let  them  please, 
Sudden  I  find  terrific  thoughts  arise, 
And  sympathetic  sorrow  fills  my  eyes  ; 
For,  lo !  while  yet  my  heart  admits  the  wound, 
I  see  the  Critic  army  ranged  around. 

Foes  to  our  race  !  if  ever  ye  have  known 
A  father's  fears  for  offspring  of  your  own ; 
If  ever,  smiling  o'er  a  lucky  line, 
Ye  thought  the  sudden  sentiment  divine, 
Then  paused  and  doubted,  and  then,  tired  of  doubt, 
With  rage  as  sudden  dashed  the  stanza  out ;  — 
If,  after  fearing  much  and  pausing  long, 
Ye  ventured  on  the  world  your  labored  song, 
And  from  the  crusty  critics  of  those  days 
Implored  the  feeble  tribute  of  their  praise  ; 
Remember  now  the  fears  that  moved  you  then, 
And,  spite  of  truth,  let  mercy  guide  your  pen. 

What  vent'rous  race  are  ours  !  what  mighty  foes 


170  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Lie  waiting  all  around  them  to  oppose  ! 

What  treacherous  friends  betray  them  to  the  fight ! 

What  dangers  threaten  them  :  —  yet  still  they  write  : 

A  hapless  tribe  !  to  every  evil  born, 

Whom  villains  hate,  and  fools  affect  to  scorn  : 

Strangers  they  come,  amid  a  world  of  woe, 

And  taste  the  largest  portion  ere  they  go. 

Pensive  I  spoke,  and  cast  mine  eyes  around ; 
The  roof,  methought,  returned  a  solemn  sound  ; 
Each  column   seemed   to  shake,   and   clouds,   like 

smoke, 
From  dusty  piles  and  ancient  volumes  broke ; 
Gathering  above,  like  mists  condensed  they  seem, 
Exhaled  in  summer  from  the  rushy  stream ; 
Like  flowing  robes  they  now  appear,  and  twine 
Round  the  large  members  of  a  form  divine  ; 
His  silver  beard,  that  swept  his  aged  breast, 
His  piercing  eye,  that  inward  light  expressed, 
Were  seen  —  but  clouds  and  darkness  veiled  the  rest. 
Fear  chilled  my  heart :  to  one  of  mortal  race, 
How  awful  seemed  the  Genius  of  the  place  ! 
So  in  Cimmerian  shores,  Ulysses  saw 
His  parent-shade,  and  shrunk  in  pious  awe  ; 
Like  him  I  stood,  and  wrapped  in  thought  profound, 
When  from  the  pitying  power  broke  forth  a  solemn 
sound  :  — 

"  Care  lives  with  all ;  no  rules,  no  precepts  save 
The  wise  from  woe,  no  fortitude  the  brave ; 
Grief  is  to  man  as  certain  as  the  grave  : 
Tempests  and  storms  in  life's  whole  progress  rise, 


THE  LIBRARY.  171 

And  hope  shines  dimly  through  o'erclouded  skies. 
Some  drops  of  comfort  on  the  favored  fall, 
But  showers  of  sorrow  are  the  lot  of  all: 
Partial  to  talents,  then,  shall  Heaven  withdraw 
Th'  afflicting  rod,  or  break  the  general  law  ? 
Shall  he  who  soars,  inspired  by  loftier  views, 
Life's  little  cares  and  little  pains  refuse  ? 
Shall  he  not  rather  feel  a  double  share 
Of  mortal  woe,  when  doubly  armed  to  bear  ? 

"  Hard  is  his  fate  who  builds  his  peace  of  mind 
On  the  precarious  mercy  of  mankind ; 
Who  hopes  for  wild  and  visionary  things, 
And  mounts  o'er  unknown  seas  with  vent'rous  wings  ; 
But  as,  of  various  evils  that  befall 
The  human  race,  some  portion  goes  to  all ; 
To  him  perhaps  the  milder  lot 's  assigned 
Who  feels  his  consolation  in  his  mind. 
And,  locked  within  his  bosom,  bears  about 
A  mental  charm  for  every  care  without. 
E'en  in  the  pangs  of  each  domestic  grief, 
Or  health  or  vigorous  hope  affords  relief ; 
And  every  wound  the  tortured  bosom  feels, 
Or  virtue  bears,  or  some  preserver  heals  ; 
Some  generous  friend  of  ample  power  possessed  ; 
Some  feeling  heart,  that  bleeds  for  the  distressed  ; 
Some  breast  that  glows  with  virtues  all  divine  ; 
Some  noble  Rutland,  misery's  friend  and  thine. 

"  Nor  say,  the  Muse's  song,  the  Poet's  pen, 
Merit  the  scorn  they  meet  from  little  men. 
With  cautious  freedom  if  the  numbers  flow, 


172  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Not  wildly  high,  nor  pitifully  low ; 

If  vice  alone  their  honest  aims  oppose, 

Why  so  ashamed  their  friends,  so  loud  their  foes  ? 

Happy  for  men  in  every  age  and  clime, 

If  all  the  sons  of  vision  dealt  in  rhyme. 

Go  on,  then,  Son  of  Vision  1  still  pursue 

Thy  airy  dreams ;  the  world  is  dreaming  too. 

Ambition's  lofty  views,  the  pomp  of  state, 

The  pride  of  wealth,  the  splendor  of  the  great, 

Stripped   of   their   mask,   their  cares  and   troubles 

known, 
Are  visions  far  less  happy  than  thy  own  : 
Go  on  !  and,  while  the  sons  of  care  complain, 
Be  wisely  gay  and  innocently  vain  ; 
While  serious  souls  are  by  their  fears  undone, 
Blow  sportive  bladders  in  the  beamy  sun, 
And*call  them  worlds  !  and  bid  the  greatest  show 
More  radiant  colors  in  their  worlds  below : 
Then,  as  they  break,  the  slaves  of  care  reprove, 
And  tell  them,  Such  are  all  the  toys  they  love. 


%  final  Iteorti* 

THE  COLLECTOR  TO  HIS  LIBRARY. 

Brown  Books  of  mine,  who  never  yet 
Have  caused  me  anguish  or  regret,  — 
Save  when  some  fiend  in  human  shape 
Has  set  your  tender  sides  agape, 
Or  soiled  with  some  unmanly  smear 
The  whiteness  of  your  page  sincere, 
Or  scored  you  with  some  phrase  inane, 
The  bantling  of  his  idle  brain,  — 
/  love  you  :  and  because  must  end 
This  commerce  between  friend  and  friend, 
I  do  beseech  each  kindly  fate  — 
To  each  and  all  I  supplicate  — 
That  you  whom  I  have  loved  so  long 
May  not  be  vended  " for  a  song,"  — 
That  you,  my  dear  desire  and  care, 
May  'scape  the  common  thoroughfare, 
The  dust,  the  eating  rain,  and  all 
The  shame  and  squalor  of  the  stall. 
Rather  I  trustyour  lot  may  touch 
Some  Croesus  —  if  there  should  be  such  — 
To  buy  you,  and  that  you  may  so 
From  Croesus  unto  Croesus  go 


174  BALLADS  OF  BOOKS. 

Till  that  inevitable  day 

When  comes  your  moment  of  decay. 

This,  more  than  other  good,  I  pray. 

Austin  Dobson. 


UNIVERSITY  OF   CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


THIS  BOQK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


30m-l,'15 


to  it 709 


18982 


e^s 


